


An Unexpected Viewing, or: Excellent Burglar Material Indeed (as narrated by Bilbo Baggins)

by Itar94



Series: The Great Movie Adventures of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield (as narrated by Bilbo Baggins) [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: An Unexpected Journey, Angst, BAMF Bilbo, Bofur's hat appears so many times it basically deserves to be tagged as a character, Breaking the Fourth Wall, Characters Watching Themselves, Crack, Culture Shock, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Emotionally Constipated Thorin, Fluff, Fíli and Kíli Are Little Shits, Gandalf is a Troll, Gandalf pretends to know it all but doesn't really know it all, Gen, Hobbit Culture, I will get around to dealing more with Bilbo's past, Mentions of backstories, Oblivious Bilbo, Protective Thorin, Slow Build Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, The Company ships Bagginshield, Thorin Is an Idiot, Thorin is a softie and a dork at heart, all characters appearing in the movies will be mentioned at some point, book-verse mixed in too, headcanons may appear, lots of facepalms, quite a bit of nonsense, references to Silmarillion and Middle-earth history, the company watches the movies, there might be a plot of a sort somewhere around here, this is silly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One moment the Company of Thorin Oakenshield are enjoying their brief respite at Beorn's house, completely unaware that they are being watched - and that a kidnapping is just about to ensue. But not to worry though! There's popcorn. Popcorn = good.</p><p> <i>Or: the start of a silly little series wherein Bilbo and the Dwarves get to watch themselves. On widescreen.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> _Hello there everybody! I've awoken, and started spitting out another project (not that I need it but nevemind). (The least surprised person is myself.)_  
>  _This is (obviously) going to be movie!verse fic for a huge part; but I may veer back into book!verse in certain instances (we’ll see how it turns out). Mentions of backstory, or discussions of such between characters, will probably be either book!verse or headcanons (if Tolkien hasn’t given enough information to work with). I decided to continue not just with AUJ but the whole Hobbit trilogy and maybe/possibly/hopefully the LotR movies as well. This will involve the characters viewing the extended editions of all films (including BotFA if the EE gets released before I get that far), and I sort of plan to get all the way through to the Return of the King. If I can manage._  
>  _There’s no way I could write all of this seriously, but there will be moments of seriousness nonetheless (dealing with the ring in the hobbit's pocket). I’m not going to stick a deadline on this for the simple reason that it’ll be long and dumb, and I’ve got a lot of stuff going on IRL and well, this is my escape route right now, a way to relieve anxiety. (Yes, yes, I_ know, _I’ve got too many WIPs lying around waiting already…). Also, not beta-read; I'm writing in my second language. Behold misspelling, awkward grammar, all that stuff that occurs when I'm writing at two in the morning._  
>  _Anyway. I shall stop rambling now._  
>  _Finally: I hereby proudly(?) present to You ..._

#  **An Unexpected Viewing**  
_or: Excellent Burglar Material Indeed_  
(as narrated by Bilbo Baggins)

* * *

**Chapter 1:**

# Introduction

 **wherein the members of the company of thorin oakenshield find themselves magically whisked away**  
**(but not to oz), meet nobody in particular, and are introduced**  
**to a … ‘moh-vee’? (no kíli it can’t be eaten!)**

* * *

The house of Beorn is huge and slightly intimidating, much like the skin-changer himself. Having seen him both as a bear in the shadow of twilight and then in the morning as a very, very tall man chopping wood with the biggest ax Bilbo had ever laid eyes on, it took quite some self-control not to try run and hide or squeal in surprise when Beorn got close or spoke in his direction.

They have been allowed to rest for a couple of days at the house, which is a great relief - to _most_ of them, anyway. (Thorin refuses to relax for a second, because he is a very stubborn, very paranoid Dwarf, and since he does not let down his guard for a second, neither does Dwalin, Glóin or Fíli. And Dori has started sleeping with one eye open at the time like some kind of owl, probably to keep guard of his brothers. Come think of it, Bilbo thinks maybe he and Bombur are the only ones actually somewhat enjoying the relative peace and quiet of this short rest).

It means sleeping on something more comfortable than the bare ground; it's not a proper bed but Bilbo won't complain, since the piles of hay are the softest things he's had chance to sleep on for weeks and weeks and weeks now. They get to eat hot food at last, too, and some very sweet honey and moist bread; not thin broths and dry rations that not even Bombur's cooking skills can improve much. And the hot baths! With both a big tub and a fire available Bilbo is so, so happy to finally wash all that dirt and grime out of his hair.

But not all of the Company are as happy as the Hobbit. There's a great deal of muttering among them, and Thorin has a watch set up during the night, which Bilbo thinks is a bit silly; Beorn, while large and probably very deadly, means them no harm and Gandalf says it's safe here, so why can't they all be allowed proper rest for once? But the Dwarf is adamant and ignores anyone's complaints, and if it soothes his paranoia - which in fact isn't that much paranoia, after what happened with the trolls and the goblin caves and with the wargs, Azog appearing and Thorin's flash near death - then they'll let him have his way (though there are lots of grumpy grumblings at the prospect of less sleep, especially from Fíli and Kíli).

So they spend two days at Beorn's house, just recuperating and gathering strength for the next length of the journey, which could prove even more perilous than the last. They have the Elven forest between them and the mountain, and from what Bilbo's gathered it's not a nice place, certainly nothing like Rivendell. There are still many miles left to cover.

It's a sunny afternoon and Beorn is out keeping to his beehives, and most Dwarves gathered around the big table making plans, distributing supplies in packs and sharpening weapons. Bilbo comes to join them after a few hours walking around in the garden surrounding the house.

It's nothing like a garden in the Shire, but close enough, and it'd been nice to just sit under the trees and smell the flowers. Too long has passed since he had the chance to do that. Beorn (still obstinately addressing him as "little bunny" which is rather rude, Bilbo thinks, but the large man is their host and it wouldn’t do to anger him) kindly let him pick any flowers or seeds of his choosing from the fruitful garden, and the Hobbit realized that not much was going to survive the journey to Erebor and then back; but an acorn might, so he’d pocketed one, making sure it lay secure with the pocket button (one of the sad few he has left now) tightly closed.

Returning inside he looks toward the giant table - at least giant from a Hobbit point of view – which is center stage. Glóin is methodically counting coins while Ori is making notes in his journal, and it looks like he’s drawing a few sketches too. Dori is drinking tea from an oversized wooden cup, while Fíli is sitting some way off polishing one of his many throwing axes. Thorin is there too, with Balin, Dwalin and Bifur; the latter is whittling a toy eagle it looks like. Some way off, Óin appears to be comparing some medicinal looking herbs or another, perhaps also picked from the garden, sorting some out and adding others to his threadbare pack. Last he spots Bofur who’s lounging in the giant chair like a misfit king on his throne, hat pulled halfway down over his face, the Dwarf more or less asleep.

“Ah! Come join us, Master Baggins,” Balin says noticing the approaching Hobbit. “We’re drawing up the last details for the next leg of the journey, so we should be off before nightfall. We have a schedule to keep, after all.”

“Word is lunch is going to be served soon,” Glóin piques up, adding a few more coins to the pile on the left. He looks for once rather content and not concerned about his currently dwindling finances, his wife or son back in the Blue Mountains, or the journey or any mishaps that may happen along the way (the list of possibilities is very, _very_ long). As Glóin is quite the worrier (and vocal about it), this is a rarity.

Bilbo’s stomach rumbles a little at the mention of food. Even if it will be bread and honey again, it’s much better than the watery stew and dry rations and cram which they’ve had for the past weeks. He can’t really believe it’s already been one and a half months* since he left the Shire. No Hobbit has been this far east for over a millennia, he could just bet!

All of the Dwarves, Thorin included, have become a lot less grumpy and much more kind towards him since the attack by Azog and the eagles rescuing them and carrying them to the Carrock. Most of them have, one by one and at different times, approached him afterward and thanked him (in their own way) for his most surprising bravery, for facing down a pack of orcs and wargs trying to defend Thorin and the others (‘Such a tiny, fearless thing!’ Bilbo has heard some of them murmur when they think he can’t hear; he thinks he even heard Kíli call him ‘adorably fierce’ once, which was just ridiculous. And he’s _not_ tiny!). Fíli and Kíli were especially grateful for saving their uncle. They’ve stuck to the Hobbit much like glue for the past few days talking about their home back in Ered Luin and in turn asking for (read: incessantly demanding) stories about the Shire and about Bilbo himself.

(And Bilbo doesn’t know yet but the young Sons of Durin tend to call him 'Uncle Boggins' now in private discussions and a lot of times when Thorin can obviously hear but is pretending not to.)

Much to his embarrassment, he slips as he scrambles up to join them on one of the oversized benches and a strong hand catches him beneath the arm. “Steady there,” says Thorin. “It would not do to have our burglar bump his head and hurt himself before we even reach the Mountain!”

“Indeed. I say his pretty, clever head is one of his best features, though not at all the only one, eh,” says Nori, smirking for some reason.

“Ahem, yes, well,” Thorin clears his throat, voice a little rough. Belatedly Bilbo realizes Thorin hasn’t let go of his arm yet, awkwardly steadying him. “Obviously we need m— _our_ burglar to be whole once we reach Erebor, to be able to reclaim our hom–”

The Dwarf cuts off mid-word.

The ground starts trembling; softly at first, then more and more violently with each passing second, and with it begins a noise that soon drowns out all words and the birdsong from outside and the bleating of the animals in the house. Bilbo would’ve tumbled to the floor if Thorin wasn’t still gently but firmly gripping his elbow. It doesn’t stop a yelp from escaping him though. This really isn’t good, he thinks. He’s heard stories of times and places when the ground would tremor violently, but that never happened in the Shire, at least not since they started proper records of time there.

“What in the name of – ?!” cries out the Dwarves in choir, grunting and cursing in surprise. There’s no foe for them to arm themselves against. “What’s going on?!”

“Is this an earthquake?” Kíli gasps, grasping the nearest part of his brother which happens to be a fistful of braided hair. Fíli’s a bit too preoccupied with keeping his balance to demand his brother let go. “Oh Mahal, what if it’s the dragon?”

“Dragon?!” cries Bilbo. What? _What_? No, no, this can’t be a dragon thundering towards them. Smaug is miles away, hiding under a mountain, hopefully very deeply asleep and completely unaware that fourteen Dwarves and a Hobbit are making their way toward Erebor.

“If it’s a dragon we’re fucked,” mutters Dwalin. “We’re surrounded by wood.”

Like the protective mother hen he is, Dori grabs Ori holding him tightly, ignoring Ori’s loud protests. Glóin tries to grab all the coins he’d so neatly organized in piles on the table and shove them under his beard as to not lose a single penny. The table rattles, everything on it tumbling to the ground along with things from various shelves and other surfaces in the room. The animals are rushing about, crying in panic. (Nobody sees Nori pocketing several large chess pieces - waste not want not.)

“Mister Gandalf! Mister Gandalf! _Help_!”

And while everything is shaking a light appears, a white glow without source, enveloping them all and the Dwarves are drawing weapons, screaming battle-cries; and just as the Wizard comes rushing from around the corner, the strange light reaches its peak –

* * *

– and the bright light recedes, disappearing into nothing.

They all blink confused and blinded for a moment. As the light clears, they come to realize that they stand on strange ground, and the air feels altogether different. No longer are they in Beorn's house, or in a forest in the Wild or any of the sort.

No, they've somehow been transported into a large room with darkened walls, save for the one furthest off which is entirely white. In front of this white wall there's a row of plump, comfortable-looking chairs - fifteen, to be precise; all of which all in perfect Hobbit or Dwarf size, except the last one which seems more fitting someone of the Big Folk.

The Dwarves react at once as they come to, grasping for weapons but finding to their shock and anger that all of their equipment is missing. Bilbo realizes that the now-starting-be-familiar weight of his sword at his side is also gone. None of them have their packs, so that means no supplies, no food, no blankets, _nothing_.

“What is going on here?!” Thorin growls, and he and some turn to the Wizard, who is standing utterly silent by the back. Bilbo has never seen Gandalf so shell-shocked before. That can’t be good. “What is this place? Tharkûn, give me answers!”

"Yeah, where did Beorn's house go?" Kíli puts in. There’s an uncertainty on his face like he can't decide whether he should be distressed, afraid, angry or just intrigued by it all. Fíli is right at his side, quiet and concerned, wrapping a hand around his little brother’s arm. “Huh. Never heard of a vanishing house before.”

Dwalin scowls darkly - Ori makes a worried noise at the back of his throat. Pushing his way through the group, Dori comes to stand next to Thorin and glares at the Wizard alongside. “Most importantly how do we get _back_?”

But how can they be here? Have they somehow been all kidnapped in their sleep, a spell put upon them? Were they cast into the place by magic? This is not good, Bilbo thinks, oh, not good at all! What if they can't get back? And what if they starve here? Surely Gandalf must find them a way out!

The Hobbit turns to the Wizard despairingly, silently seeking an answer, a _hint_ of an answer, anything at all to clear up the situation and hopefully bring them back to Beorn’s house. But Gandalf is just staring at the wall and humming on his breath, like he's trying to solve this puzzle but can't make ends or tails of it. And if the Wizard doesn’t know, then it can’t be just bad, it must be very, very bad indeed. Oh, typical! And this had started out as such a good day!

“Yeah,” Nori says. “We should split up and look for a door!”

Dori looks outraged. “No, no, that’s too risky! We have to stay together!”

“Risky? _Risky_ is staying here, vulnerable to whatever foul play that’s at work. We must prepare a defence!”

“Aye! Can any of you find any weapons at all?” Balin asks the group as a whole.

“Oh no, even my hidden knives are gone... _all_ of my sixteen knives and throwing axes... Oh, I loved those throwing axes!”

“Wait, Fíli, how do you keep _sixteen_ knives and axes on you? Where do you even put them?” Kíli blinks at his brother owlishly.

“That’s kind of, uh, irrelevant right now. Ahem. Kíli, look around, maybe there’s a hidden passage somewhere in the walls or floor…”

“… euhm, Thorin, you are still holding onto my arm. Ahem. Maybe you could let go now, please? ... no?”

Bifur shakes a fist violently. “ **Zimrith ib-bekan**!” 

“Mister Gandalf, did you do this? Did you put a spell on us?!”

“Now, Master Dori, I certainly wouldn’t –”

“Ah, eh … Thorin, please let go now? My hand is beginning to numb …”

(Glóin is too busy lamenting the loss of all of their shiny coins to make any inputs.)

“... Look! I've still got my journal. Good. I'd hate losing it. Oh, wait! Here's my quill ...”

“And how will a damned quill help us out of here?!”

One by one the Dwarves gather their wits (as much as they can, facing these odd and unexpected events) and soon there are so many voices in the air that Bilbo feels like he's stuck in a pissing match back in the Shire at one of his cousins' parties, where the Sackville-Bagginses would find any way to argument with the nearest Took, effectively dragging all related Hobbits into it all, over some silly (or not so silly) subject like whose mother does the best crochet.

Bilbo is just so tired by everything that's happened so far on this journey that he decides that maybe it's best not to get too involved. Especially since Thorin's tone is getting more and more threatening, and Gandalf is standing there choking on his pipe, which by chance hasn't disappearing unlike all of their other gear. Thorin _still_ won’t let go of his arm – the Dwarf doesn’t seem to realize he’s still holding it, or has simply ignored Bilbo’s polite request to be let go. Oh, well. The Dwarf means no ill by it, Bilbo knows, so he’ll let it slip. For now, anyway.

Instead the Hobbit glances around the room to make more sense of it. There's no sign of windows or any doors – no ways of escape. There are no carvings or banners or letters on the walls; nothing to indicate what place or Age this is, if it's been made by Men or Dwarves or Elves. It's very frustrating and frightening, and Bilbo feels very small indeed, and would prefer to be back at Beorn’s house right now. He was just getting used that place!

Looking back at the Company, Bilbo can see Dori putting a protective arm around Ori, who tries pushing him off in vain; Nori, on the other hand, has moved to the side and is inspecting the chairs and white walls with a frown on his face. Bifur is waving a fist, muttering in Khuzdul, and Glóin has moved on from the coins to instead bemoan the loss of his beloved axes ("Oh, those were made by my great-grandfather! My wee Gimli was meant to inherit those, now they're lost, lost forever!").

Óin is loudly shouting about portents and ill omens and how this has a very foul air about it. And Dwalin has taken to violently throwing himself at the nearest wall in attempt to fell it; it doesn’t budge an inch. He’s no doubt going to be sporting some heavy bruises before long if he keeps that up.

Heaving a sigh, Bilbo has to cover his sensitive ears for all the noise.

This goes on and on and on for several minutes. Bilbo considers breaking his silence, standing up and trying to do _something_ to stop this chaos, when _finally_ Thorin manages to be heard over the noise with a command in Khuzdul; much like he'd done in Bag End, so many months ago, when there'd been bickering around the table.

“ **Shazara**!”

Whatever the word means it's pretty effective. Bilbo sighs in relief at the descending silence.

Gandalf clears his throat. "It appears we have been side-tracked. Let's have a careful look around. I have a feeling that whatever power brought us here it did not do so for leisure. Clearly this has been planned beforehand; just look at the number of the chairs and the sizes of them! It’s an exact match to this Company."

“Don't touch them! They’re probably made of some unnatural magic!” Dori loudly cries when Ori pokes at the nearest chair with one of his knitting needles, which also had survived this strange trip.

Maybe whatever force that brought them here only didn't want them to bring weapons? (Even if a knitting needle surely could function as a weapon during an emergency.) Spurred by this thought, Bilbo puts a hand in his pocket - both the acorn and the ring are still there. But becoming invisible wouldn't help much now, would it? There’s no way out, no doors – no guards to hide from either. Just a large empty room and fifteen plump, comfortable-looking chairs.

“Quite the contrary, Master Dori, these chairs appear to be entirely normal and magicless,” Gandalf says, ignoring both the outraged look on the Dwarf's face and the shadow of Thorin behind him, who is obstinately glaring at the Wizard. “We must have been brought here for a reason, and to find that reason I think we'd all better sit down.” And with that the Wizard takes seat on the biggest of the fifteen chairs and pulls out a tobacco pouch from an inner pocket and begins stuffing his pipe with it.

“Are you certain that's a good idea?” Bilbo asks nervously.

“Sit down, all of you, and I'm sure our host will have the graces to appear.”

It takes quite some time and further demanding from Gandalf (and _patience_ ) but eventually all of them, even Thorin, have taken seat; Bilbo nearest the Wizard who's sitting furthest to the left, with the Company's leader on the Hobbit's other side. Fíli and Kíli immediately claim the seats closest to their uncle, and the Ri brothers next to them, and then Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, and lastly Óin and Glóin.

For a while they sit there waiting and muttering amongst each other in a mix of Westron and Khuzdul. And Bilbo notices that the lights - the sources he can't really pinpoint other than some form of big lamps high, high up in the ceiling - are slowly going out. He turns to Gandalf, but the Wizard looks calm, so the Hobbit tries to calm his own frantically beating heart too. Thorin still won't stop glaring at the Wizard, though.

As Gandalf puts his pipe in his mouth the lights go out entirely, and all Dwarves fall quiet in surprise. Eventually the Wizard harrumphs and says: “You may stop glaring at me, Master Oakenshield. I have nothing to do with our current situation.”

Eventually Thorin stops fixing his eyes on the Wizard but Bilbo hears him mutter darkly, “Why am I having difficulty believing that?”

It makes the Hobbit to almost smile. He should've taken seat beside Bofur, who’s at least cheerful company, not between these grouchy two!

* * *

Within a minute or two after they’ve all settled down to impatiently wait, a voice echoes through the large chamber. It has no direct source and nobody appears before them. Bilbo can't make out whether the voice is that of a man or woman, or what race they may belong to. It's rather disconcerting.

 _“Welcome, weary travellers,”_ it says. _“I'm certain you'll want some refreshments. I'm afraid I am going to have to keep you for a few hours –”_

Before the voice can finish, Thorin stands up, spine stiff, and addresses the white wall (with lack of anyone or anything else to look at). It’s remarkable, really, how the Dwarf still manages to appear authoritative and imposing while angrily shouting at a _wall_.

“Who are you and what do you want with us? Show yourself!”

 _“Peace, Thorin, son of Thráin. I mean to cause you no harm, and no evil is here but what you may have brought yourself.”_ The voice speaks with the patience of an elderly grandmother who was tiring of her grandchildren's mischief, reminding him badly of Mrs Bell Gamgee whenever she disapproved of something, and Bilbo feels himself shrink even if the words aren't directed at him in particular. But Thorin doesn't even flinch. _“Now, as I was saying - you may desire food and drink during your time here, and you'll find that on that table over to your right.”_

And suddenly there is a table right there, over-stuffed with foodstuffs and bottles and all sorts of edible things, and Bilbo perches up in interest. Real, hot, proper food! And big bowls of popped corn like his Uncle Isengrim used to make! And roasted mushrooms! Oh!

“What are you going to do - poison us?” Thorin spits angrily, pulling back his nephews who have both taken interest in the food and tried lunging for it. Poor things must be tiring of honey and bread, Bilbo thinks; he is too. “We won’t fall for your tricks, foul spectre!”

 _“No, you silly Dwarf, I'm not going to poison you._ _That’d be rather counter-productive.”_

Thorin nearly, almost pouts and Bilbo has to stifle a giggle - really! calling Thorin that in his face! Whoever was speaking had to be some sort of Wizard or have kinship with Gandalf.

_“I do not mean to harm or kill any of you. What kind of horrible manners wouldn’t that be? No, I am here to teach you.”_

“… You. Mean to teach us,” the Dwarf repeats blankly, confusing replacing his anger. He wasn't expecting **that**. More like, perhaps, an army of orcs suddenly appearing wanting to cut their heads off, or a prissy Elf revealing themself to be the owner of the mocking voice.

_“Yes; valuable lessons can be learned through observation. And no, Thorin Oakenshield, I am no Elf, prissy or otherwise, nor am I an Orc. There’s no need to be so paranoid here. Who I am matters not. But I've followed your journey and grown quite fond of all of you, but I think there are some things that really need to be changed; and with what you're doing right now, I'm sorry to say that you're moving toward a dark ending.”_

At the last bit, Óin presses his trumpet closer to his ear and turns to his brother with a hum. "Did they say there's a wedding?"

 _“No, an **ending**. Sadly no weddings are involved in what you are about to witness,"_ the voice clarifies. " _Someone really must craft him a new ear-trumpet."_

"We are to witness a wedding? That's what I said!”

“Never mind that. What do you mean, stranger?” Thorin interrupts sharply. “Speak plainly! I’m weary of these damned riddles.”

There's a nearly inaudible sigh. _“I mean you're not going to have a happy ending at this rate. Believe me, I wouldn't go through all of this trouble just to amuse myself. Well, maybe,”_ the voice amends and Bilbo raises his eyebrows. Right. So whatever or whoever is speaking might be a mischievous powerful Wizard who Gandalf can't - or won't - identify or stop. Great.

“But who are you?” Thorin demands, again, though his voice has faltered slightly. If this person or force is one of the Valar or the Maiar, who knows what powers they may posses and strike their Company down?

 _“Oh, I’m Nobody in Particular._ _Now, if you would all settle down again, please,”_ the voice finishes, _“let's get started with the movie.”_

Kíli, in the middle of filling his arms with roast chicken and other nice-smelling foods, makes a confused noise. “What's a 'mo-vee'? Can you eat it?”

But the voice doesn't answer and the lights have all gone out now, and with a grumble Thorin stumbles back to his seat. Not having partaken in the conversation, Gandalf puffs on his pipe, seemingly content or amused. Bilbo doesn't have a chance to ask the Wizard if he knows what the voice is talking about or if these ‘mo-vees’ are edible, because the white wall in front of them lights up, then fills with black and new noise is surrounding them. Some kind of music, but without anyone they can see playing the instruments: and then the walls starts being filled with moving imagery unlike what Bilbo (or any of the Company for that matter) has ever before seen.

A large golden text appears, silently and proudly proclaiming:

**THE HOBBIT**

Bilbo, once again, shrinks in his seat, because now everyone glances at him in surprise or dismay or confusion. Gandalf lays a comforting hand on his arm.

“I wouldn’t worry, dear Bilbo,” the Wizard says. “Certainly everything will be explained in due time.”

To his left Thorin scowls. Really, that Dwarf is _never_ cheery. One’d think he’d swallowed a bitter lemon at some point and it’s since become permanently lodged at the back of his throat. “You’d better be right, Wizard. I don’t like this one bit.”

 _Oh dear,_ Bilbo thinks. _I wonder if Beorn has noticed we’re missing from his house yet?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wordlist (Khuzdul)**  
>  **Tharkûn** The Dwarves’ name for Gandalf  
>  **Zimrith ib-bekan!** Sound the alarm! ([source](http://midgardsmal.com/dwarvish-7/))  
>  **Shazara!** Silence!
> 
>  **Additional notes:**  
>  * _”[…] one and a half months since he’d left the Shire.”_ The Company sets off from the Shire on 27 Astron (27/4) in T.A. 2941 according to the book, but after that the timeline become a little sketchy, and only some events are noted with actual dates. They reach Rivendell in time for Midyear’s Day, when Elrond reads the moon runes, and depart on 2 Lithe (that’s two days after Midyear’s Day), and they reach Laketown on 22 Halimath (22/9) – according to the book, anyway; everything seems a little more compressed in the movies. (In Laketown, by the way, Bilbo turns 51, but I don’t remember if that was noted in any way by the Dwarves or himself). I did some research online, including [here](https://ece.uwaterloo.ca/~dwharder/Personal/Hobbit/) and at [here](http://www.lotrproject.com), but can’t give a really detailed/exact timeline either. But this (inexact) timeline means the Company arrives at Beorn’s house around early July (maybe the 5th) and this fic begins after they’ve stayed there for a couple of days – at least one night but possibly two.  
>  _Previously I said "June" not "july" but this was corrected by phoenixdaisy. Thanks!_
> 
> I’m going to use book-verse for some parts and movie-verse for others. Backstory and history, which will be discussed and brought up by the characters, is mostly book-verse, but some things are more like headcanons and not really canon, mostly for lack of information from canonical sources (or if these sources contradict each other). Also the whole Azog storyline is movie-verse, for obvious reasons, even if it's completely against book-canon.


	2. In a Hole in the Ground ...

**Chapter 2:**

# In a Hole in the Ground ...

**wherein we meet two hobbits, gandalf is rude, bilbo baggins is not impressed  
and thorin oakenshield bemoans the dishonour which has been brought upon the line of durin**

**(no, seriously. kíli cries. dori is upset. facepalming occurs.)**

* * *

_“My dear Frodo ... You asked me once if I had told you everything there was to know about my_ adventures _.  
And while I can honestly say I have told you the truth, I may not have told you _ all _of it …”_

It's not the same voice as before; this one is old with a raspy edge, while the first voice has been old and young and timeless all at once. The name mentioned sounds rather Hobbitish, Bilbo thinks. Is the narrator a story-teller? Is this a story? But who's Frodo, and who's doing the story-telling?

Hmm. Frodo – must be a relation of his cousin Drogo. The Hobbit quickly skims his memory of the Baggins family tree, but comes up with nothing. Or maybe some distant relative from across the Water, or in Buckland, maybe a little child who nobody’s bothered yet to tell or write to him about?

Before Bilbo can voice any questions or for that matter have much more time to reflect over these bizarre things (a magic wall showing moving pictures? sound coming from nowhere?), a candle is lit and then – wait, that's Bag End! Oh, Bilbo is _sure_ of it. He'd know those round hallways anywhere. He can't place who the Hobbit is, though, maybe some relative, one of his uncles or a cousin’s husband? Certainly not his father; Bungo's hair never had the chance to grow that deep shade of white and grey. And his mother or father never mentioned any ‘Frodo’ … How very befuddling.

The Hobbit - perhaps whoever this story is about, judging by the title - is wearing a fine silken waistcoat with gleaming brass buttons of the same fashion that he’s always liked himself. Got to be a Baggins or a Took – some relative, but Bilbo can’t place that face. There’s _something_ eerily familiar about it though…

"Oi," whispers someone in the audience. "Look at that! So old and still no beard! That’s an odd sight!"

“So they really can’t grow beards at all…” muses Óin. “Thought it was just the really young ones.”

"Shhh! I want to hear," Ori cuts them off, before Bilbo can start trying to explain about Harfoots and Fallohides and that there are some kinds of Hobbit that do grow whiskers and some that even use boots (there are rumours about it at least).

The voice goes on talking about adventures while opening a chest and the first thing they see is a rather familiar small sword. Bilbo stares in confusion; what's his dagger doing there? Unless ... no, no that's impossible! _Surely_ it's impossible! 

The old Hobbit doesn't grab the sword though, but reaches out for something beneath it. It turns out to be a red book, which the Hobbit takes with him to a study where he places it on a very familiar desk. And opening it there's a charcoal portrait – of **him**! Bilbo scarcely dares to breathe as he connects the dots: the familiar-looking smial, the sword in the chest, the portrait...

_“I’m old now, Frodo. I’m not the same Hobbit I once was.”_

Bilbo _stares._ "No, no, no, that can't be _me_ ," he whispers. "I must be at least eighty there! _How_ can that be me?"

"Eighty?" Thorin murmurs from his side, sounding deeply shaken for some reason. If he had been looking at the others and not at the wall Bilbo would have seen similarly shocked expressions all the Dwarves’ faces. "That's what a Hobbit looks like at merely eighty?”

"Er, yes, usually..." Bilbo answers confused. Again they are shushed by Ori, who’s enraptured by the magic wall.

* * *

Then they aren't looking at Bilbo's study in Bag End anymore, but at a map of the world which takes them from west to east, across the Misty Mountains and toward their destination: the Lonely Mountain. In front of the Mountain is a city, which Bilbo has heard mentioned briefly but doesn't know much about at all. It's too far away to have been of any interest in his lessons as a child, and by the time he was born the city had already been destroyed by the dragon.

_“There was the city of Dale. Its markets known far and wide,  
full of the bounties of vine and vale. Peaceful and prosperous.”_

It's a city full of light and life. It's rather beautiful, Bilbo thinks, it's a different way from what he's used to. It's made of stone, it's streets winding and full of people, the buildings tall. There are towers and balconies and so many houses crammed together - unlike anything that's ever been built in the Shire. There are Men, but Dwarves also, and Bilbo is pretty certain that one or two he spotted just now were female with beards. There's a lot of movement, children running around laughing. It truly looks as the old Bilbo says: peaceful and prosperous. One couldn't believe that it's the same Dale that is now probably nothing more than rubble and ash.

_“For this city lay before the doors of the greatest kingdom in Middle-earth: Erebor.  
Stronghold of Thrór, King Under the Mountain, mightiest of the Dwarf Lords.”_

"Oh," Bilbo breathes.

"Ain't takin' it easy with the praise there," Bofur remarks, glancing at the Hobbit, who blushes a little. Who is he to control what the narrator is saying?

A road from Dale leads up to a huge gate cut right into the Mountain, or more than a gate: a fortress, and it's just on a too massive scale for Bilbo to actually comprehend. The fortress is flanked by two giant statues and guarded by numerous heavily armoured Dwarves. But it's not a dead place, but full of light and sound and Dwarves, and there's a King on a throne: Thrór. And then Thorin appears on the screen, younger and with a bit more of a beard. Is the wall able to show them both the past _and_ the future? This is getting more and more confusing by the minute.

 _“Thrór ruled with utter surety, never doubting his house would endure,_  
_for his line lay secure in the lives of his son ... and grandson.”_

There's a collective inhale of sharp breaths, and Thorin beside him stiffens. "What magic is this?!"

Several of the younger Dwarves, who hadn't been born in Erebor and never saw it before it fell to Smaug, stare in wonder; while Balin, like knowing what the narrator is about to show them next, sighs heavily.

"It looks really grand," Bilbo murmurs. Magical almost, like out of a fairy-tale like his father used to read him by his bedside as a fauntling. Something so strange no Hobbit would ever come up with it.

 _“Ah, Frodo – Erebor! Built deep within the mountain itself, the beauty of this_  
_fortress-city was legend. Its wealth lay in the earth, in precious gems_  
_hewn from rock, and in great seams of gold running like rivers through stone.”_

There is more gold and glittering stones than the Mathom House in Michel Delving has ever stored. So many Dwarves digging, excavating, weighing, smithing. It's like the city itself is breathing through them. Next to him, Bilbo notices how Thorin's breaths have turned slightly ragged, by shock or grief or something else. Bilbo wishes he knew what to say or do to bring him comfort, or explain what they're seeing. It must be painful, to relive memories like this. Bilbo knows that he certainly wouldn't ever like to see Bag End burned down or destroyed, and then be reminded of its previous splendor this bluntly.

 _“The skill of the Dwarves was unequaled; fashioning objects of great beauty_  
_out of diamond, emerald, ruby and sapphire. Ever they delved deeper, down into the dark."_

There are murmurs in Khuzdul around him, whispers that Bilbo doesn't think the Dwarves are even aware that they're uttering, at the sight of so many of their kin working in their former home. Completely unaware that the end was soon upon them, that the dragon soon would come and lay ruin to the Mountain.

_“- and that is where they found it: the heart of the Mountain. The Arkenstone!”_

"Arkenstone?" Bilbo asks nobody in particular. The Dwarves had mentioned it before a couple of times, he'd overheard them talking about it, but no one had explained yet what it was for certain. It certainly looks pretty enough, glowing on its own like a lamp, and important enough for King Thrór to claim it for his own, as a pinnacle of his rule, mounting it on his throne. But no one answers the Hobbit right then, too busy staring in wonder and amazement and fear.

 _“Thrór named it ‘The King’s Jewel.’ He took it as a sign, a sign that_  
_his right to rule was divine. All would pay homage to him, even_  
_the great Elven King, Thranduil.”_

"'Great'?" Fíli mutters. "Did he have to say 'great' about the Elf?"

There's a growl from Thorin when a tall Elf appears in view - King Thranduil apparently. Bilbo has to squeeze his arm to make sure Thorin doesn't hurt himself by leaping up and trying to punch the apparition.

 _“As the great wealth of the Dwarves grew, their store of good will ran thin._  
_No one knows exactly what began the rift. The Elves say the Dwarves stole_  
_their treasure; the Dwarves tell another tale. They say the Elf King refused_  
_to give them their rightful pay. It is sad, Frodo, how old alliances can be broken._  
_How friendships between people can be lost. And for what?”_

* * *

_“Slowly the days turned sour, and the watchful nights closed in._  
_Thrór’s love of gold had grown too fierce. A sickness had to grow within him._  
_It was a sickness of the mind. And where sickness thrives, bad things will follow.”_

"The sickness took him swiftly," Thorin murmurs then. "Too swift, and then it was too late. We tried to intervene."

"I know," Balin says softly. "We all did."

_“The first they heard was a noise like a hurricane coming down  
from the North. The pines on the Mountain creaked and cracked in the hot, dry wind.”_

The younger Thorin rushes out on the parapet of the Mountain, along with a younger Balin, whose hair is dark and full.

_“Balin, sound the alarm. Call out the guard. Do it now!”_

_“What is it?”_

_“Dragon. **Dragon!”**_

"You knew the dragon was coming?"

"I was a prince, I was well-taught and had been trained to know the signs of such a danger," Thorin explains, then sighs. "But there wasn't much we could do. it we'd had earlier warning, maybe, but ... it was too late."

The Dragon is huge and Bilbo has to swallow back tears of pity at seeing the beast attack the Mountain and killing so many people. Dale burns, and Erebor is emptied of Dwarves - those who manage to escape. And the Elf-king looks down at the valley before turning away. Seeing Thorin and his people wandering across Middle-earth, homeless and hungry and without hope, causes Bilbo's heart to twist in his chest.

"Oh," Bilbo whispers. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Thorin." Despite what they'd told him of their homeland and losing it - actually seeing it like this makes him want to weep, and wish that someone had helped them back then. What a cruel fate!

"Many were lost in those days," Thorin says heavily. "Many more were lost in the months and years after, when we wandered the wild..." He trails off and looks away. The other Dwarves are pale and quiet.

* * *

Then, after the fire, the magic wall is filled with fireworks in green and blue and golden. Bilbo recognizes his grandfather Gerontious, the Thain at that time, immediately. There's Gandalf, too, sending sparks all-over the night sky; and a small fauntling of only four attacking the Wizard's shins with a tiny wooden sword -

"Wait, I remember this," Bilbo starts in shock but then his mother - _his mother!_ \- is shouting his name, and he feels a little faint.

Fíli and Kíli squeal in delight. "That's _adorable_!"

“What a wee little fellow!”

"You never told us you could handle a sword!" adds Bofur with a laugh.

Bilbo's ear turn hot and red, and he wishes he could sink through the floor and disappear. The Dwarves are now chuckling and some looking at him with an odd kind of fondness - Thorin more so than the rest of them. The Hobbit has to look away out of sheer embarrassment and tries to focus on wall, which is again changing back to Bag End and the old Hobbit who's writing in his book.

Another Hobbit joins the old one - the old _him_! Bilbo still can't wrap his head around it - and that's apparently Frodo (Baggins?), who addresses him as ‘Uncle Bilbo’.

"I've got a nephew? Huh. Well, Drogo and Primula must've married, could be one of theirs ... or maybe Cousin Fortinbras, if he’s a Took," Bilbo muses aloud. Well, that explained why he doesn’t recognize the name; the lad can’t have been born yet. A very, very strange thought: to suddenly be aware of the existence of a relative that won’t be conceived for maybe a decade.

On the wall, his old self starts taking various items and putting them into pots and hiding them away.

 _"...think you've got tunnels overflowing with gold,"_ Frodo is saying.

 _"It was one small chest, hardly overflowing,"_ old Bilbo retorts. _"And it still smells of trolls!"_

"Huh," mutters Glóin. "So ye picked it up in the troll cave? We must've come back there after the quest. Told ye it was worth makin' that deposit, Nori!"

One of the other Dwarves lets out a laugh when the old Hobbit stars ‘taking precautions’ and hiding away various items in pots and under heavy books. There's a jab about Lobelia - Sackville-Baggins? She's _married_ now? Well, if that's the future somehow ... - Bilbo decides he has to stop questioning these things, or he surely will go mad!

Well, Lobelia apparently still likes to steal his silver spoons, which honestly doesn't surprise Bilbo at all. She’s always been light-fingered even for a Hobbit (most fauntlings go through a phase where they can’t resist the temptation of stealing newly-baked pies from windowsills).

The young Frodo is kneeling before the garden gate, putting up a sign. As he lowers his hammer they can see that it reads ‘No Entry, Except on Party Business’. Ah, judging by the season it’s too late for Midsummer’s, so it’s a birthday party, then.

_“Do you think he’ll come?”_

_“Who?”_

_“Gandalf!”_

_“Oh, he wouldn’t miss the chance to show off his whiz-poppers.”_

_“Well then, I’m off,”_ Frodo says, turning to run down the path.

_“Where are you going?”_

_“To the East Farthing woods - I’m going to surprise him.”_

_“Go on then! You don’t want to be late,”_ the old Bilbo urges him on, and the younger Hobbit is off, disappearing out of sight. Then Bilbo appears to be sitting on a bench outside of his door, pipe in hand, smiling fondly. _“He doesn’t approve of being late. Not that I ever was. Back then I was entirely respectable. And nothing unexpected_ ever _happened…”_

He blows a smoke-ring and as it turns toward the blue sky, another text appears, this time white, also in the Common Tongue:

**AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY**

As the text dissolves, so does the smoke-ring and the latter twists in the air to take the shape of a butterfly, which flies right back into the face of a much younger Bilbo – in fact, just as young as he is now.

"Wait, ‘60 years later’? I was eleventy-one back there!?" Bilbo almost jumps out of his chair in shock. "What?! No, no, but that's _impossible_!"

"Apparently not," Bofur piques up. "Surely it’s not that strange?"

"Most Hobbits don't live past a hundred at all," Bilbo informs him seriously. "Except for the Old Took, my grandfather, who got to a hundred and thirty but that’s _highly_ unusual, and _he_ certainly didn't look so lively at that age. Surely there's some kind of mistake...!"

"I think not. No, there is more to this than first seems, but I sense no deception," Gandalf says softly, returning their focus to the events unfolding before them.

* * *

And there he is, dressed in one of his finest golden vests and favourite pale blue scarf, sitting on the porch without a care in the world; and Gandalf walks up just like that morning when -

_“Good morning!”_

_“What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not?  
Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?”_

Snorting loudly Nori pauses his eating of popped corn. “Wizards! Never talking straight.”

The Hobbit hesitates, lowering his pipe. _“All of them at once, I suppose …”_

"I remember this too," Bilbo says faintly when Thorin casts a worried look at him. "I mean, this is exactly, exactly how it was..." The implications are huge: if the tale of Erebor is true, as well as this meeting, then in that means that sometime in the future he’s going to become Uncle to a boy named Frodo and he’s going to live to a whole 111 years old while looking decades younger. It just … it’s almost too much, and Bilbo decides he’d better not think of it or he’ll simply faint.

Clearing his throat, the Hobbit on the magic wall asks the Wizard: _“Can I help you?”_

_“That remains to be seen. I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.”_

_“An adventure?”_ the Hobbit exclaims, voice edging on outraged, and stands up to begin gathering letters from the mail-post next to the garden gate. _“Now, I don’t imagine anyone west of Bree would have much interest in adventures! Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things – would make you late for dinner!”_ Any Hobbit would by now have gotten the message, as well have been quite insulted, but been on their way. But the Wizard lingers, as if oblivious to common courtesies.Scurrying up the steps to his round green door, the Hobbit turns around and both his face and tone are much sourer than they’d been a minute earlier _. “Good morning!”_

Bilbo winces at hearing himself like that. That sounded terribly rude. Well, the Wizard was rude too, and wouldn’t take no for an answer, so there’s that.

_“To think that I should have lived to be good-morning'd by Belladonna Took’s son, as if I were selling buttons at the door!”_

Unable to hinder himself, Bilbo murmurs, “I think I’d objected less if you really did sell buttons.”

Thorin sends him an odd look.

“What? I like buttons.”

_“… I beg your pardon?”_

_“You’ve changed, and not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins.”_

_“I’m sorry, do I know you?”_

Thorin huffs dryly. “So you were insulting strangers, Gandalf? What has become of the courtesy of Wizards?”

But the Wizard doesn’t answer, busy with his pipe; or busying himself with his pipe in order not to have to reply. Either way, the Dwarf, who had been amused at the start of the odd exchange between Hobbit and Wizard, is now feeling ever-more annoyed and slightly frustrated on the part of the Hobbit. It’s clear from the Hobbit’s tone and stance he wishes no more than for the Wizard to go away – and that’s odd, considering the arrangements Gandalf had ensured the Company and Thorin almost three weeks prior their arrival at Bag End. Maybe this was that moment, three weeks earlier, then? Well, it has to be.

In his musings Thorin has missed the Wizard introducing himself; he refocuses on the magic wall in time to catch the Hobbit saying:

_“…not Gandalf the wandering Wizard who had such excellent fireworks on Midsummer’s Eve? Well, hmm, I had no idea you were still in business.”_

_“And where else should I be?”_

_“Ah, uhm … Ahem.”_

On the side Nori and Glóin chuckle as the Hobbit avoids answering the Wizard’s questions of where else he should be if not in business by clearing his throat and puffing his pipe, even though said item appears to have lost its glow.

_“Well, I’m pleased to find your remember something about me, even if it’s only my fireworks. That’s decided!  
It will be very good for you, and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.”_

_“Inform the who? W-what? No, no. No! Wait! We do not want any adventures here, thank you. Not today, not –”_ Frustrated, the Hobbit waves his pipe in denial and gestures away from Bag End.

Now Thorin is openly frowning. What’s this? The Hobbit refused from the start? Did they enter his house unwelcome and uninvited? But they had been told that the Hobbit knew they were coming, that food was promised, that he knew…! The mark on the door was clearly there!

” _I suggest you try over the Hill, or across the Water.”_ With that the Hobbit retreats, casting a final wary: _“Good morning!”_ over his shoulder before hurrying inside, closing and locking the door.

For a moment he stands there, looking put-off and anxious, clenching a couple of letters to his chest. There’s a scratching noise and the view shifts so they can see the end of Gandalf’s staff inscribing a blue glowing sign on the door; just as he’d said be there for the Company to find when they were to meet with their burglar.

A sinking suspicion dawns on Thorin, and he glances at the Wizard, who is pointedly looking away. He also notices that next to him Bilbo is looking ever-more embarrassed.

 _… That sneaky Wizard!_ Thorin thinks, eyes widening. _Without a sense for common courtesy, indeed!_

* * *

The scene shifts for them to see a sunny Shire full of Hobbits going about their daily business. It’s a relaxed, happy scene, so unlike any Dwarven settlement right now; the lives of Dwarves are often so harsh, that such peace is difficult to come by. But there are tiny Hobbit children running over the green hills laughing, adults working in the small fields or tending to their gardens.

A figure clad in a striking blue coat, carrying a basket in one hand, reveals to be their burglar – or burglar-to-be at this point in the story. The Hobbit is in a busy marketplace, it looks like, but unlike the Hobbits around him Bilbo looks quite tense and nervous, glancing around him now and then as he makes his purchases. While talking with a farmer who’s got a very, very big pumpkin in a wheelbarrow, Bilbo suddenly ducks when it looks like someone tall with a pointy hat is nearing them – which turns out to just be a pile of sacks and other items carried by a couple of Hobbits rounding the corner. But that is merely clear evidence of Bilbo’s sudden paranoia and tension; and also a non-mistakable sign of his unwillingness to have to deal with Gandalf or any ‘adventures’.

It’s Bofur who speaks up first: "You didn't know we were coming? You'd said no right that morning without hearing of the quest beforehand? But Gandalf said you knew several weeks before, that everything had been arranged!"

Suddenly all eyes are on him, causing Bilbo to sink lower into his chair – and quite a few eyes are also on the Wizard. Thorin is glaring at the tall man (again) and for once Bilbo is a big grateful for that; also, now the Dwarves may understand why he was such a poor host upon their arrival, confused and not in a very good mood to be honest, and forgive him for that.

Being held down by thirteen pairs of angry, disbelieving eyes, Gandalf starts choking on his pipe. "Ah, well, uhm ..."

"You coerced him into coming even after he first refused?" Balin asks, raising an eyebrow of disapproval. "Clearly then the terms of the contract -"

"Now, hang on!" Bilbo interrupts. "I mean, I was a bit overwhelmed, to be honest, never having met any Dwarves before, not to mention the whole bunch of you, and certainly not having had chance to cook for you all or prepare so I must’ve come across as a very poor host, but, but I don't regret signing the contract or coming on this quest with you!"

"I'm not saying your signature is any less valid," Balin says gently. "What we mean to say is that we are deeply sorry for the inconvenience we put upon you with arriving like that. We thought you were well aware of our plans and that you had invited us through Gandalf, and later showed unwillingness to come. We believed you had been trying to break the contract, which is why we may have been particularly ... harsh and cold in our manner towards you. For this we apologize."

"It is apparent that Wizards are not entirely trustworthy," Thorin mutters, still glaring.

"Well, no harm was done," Gandalf tries to amend himself.

A doorbell rings.

On the wall, right that moment, the door is pulled open to reveal Dwalin. That rather ruins any chance of apologizes from the Wizard. The Hobbit is standing in the hallway dressed only in a nightshirt and a multi-coloured patchwork nightgown (causing Thorin for some reason to avert his eyes and mutter something in Khuzdul). He’s clearly unprepared for guests, and he stares at the large Dwarf with apparent confusion and perhaps some fright.

 _"Dwalin. At your service.”_ The Dwarf bows without taking his eyes off the Hobbit. 

The Hobbit hastily ties his nightgown together. " _Bilbo Baggins, at yours … Do we know each other?"_  

 _"No."_ Nonetheless the Dwarf invites himself inside, rudely barreling past  
the smaller being while asking about (rather: demanding) supper.

Someone tugs at his arm, and Bilbo glances to his side. There, a few seats down, Dwalin is sitting looking extremely uncomfortable and ashamed, and so completely beside himself that Bilbo first thinks he’s hallucinating it. But the large Dwarf looks so pitiful that the Hobbit almost wants to hug him.

"Oh, it's all right," Bilbo quickly says, loud enough so that the Dwarf can hear.

“I invaded your home and stole your supper. That is not ‘all right’ by any standards.”

“Technically it was dinner but really, it's all right. No hard feelings.”

The doorbell rings again. Balin squirms a little in his chair, and looks ready to apologize once more but Bilbo shushes him. “Please! I am with you now, signed contract and all, and all that's in the past. Please don't think of it anymore.”

“We emptied your larder, ate all of your food and dragged mud into your home and made a big mess, all without your permission! That's the greatest of slights!” Bombur cries, looking very upset indeed.

Fíli and Kíli also look sad, like puppies that have been kicked out of home, with tears in their eyes - _tears_! "Please don't be sad, Mister Boggins! We're so, so sorry!"

"We have to repay you," Dori says very seriously. Next to his brother, Ori has fished out his quill and inkpot and is taking notes.

His big red beard bobbing Glóin agrees: “Just tell us what food and drink and other items you need replaced, and we’ll make a list and take note of all the costs.”

"Yes, we _will_ repay you, Master Baggins," Thorin says with great authority. "Once we get to the Mountain you'll earn enough gold to refill your pantry a hundred times over. I swear it on my honour!”

"I, uh." All words stop somewhere between his brain and his tongue. At some point during his passionate speech Thorin has grabbed the Hobbit’s hands in his own larger ones, and he’s still squeezing them warmly and staring at him with much intensity. Bilbo’s head bobs up and down, and he’s unable to look away. "Right. Thank you ... I think?"

Then Fíli and Kíli knock on the door. It has to be them, everyone knows that; there's a mutter of "Those stupid lads! They were told to wait for the rest of us!" when a very upset Bilbo (who's struggling to hold it together without breaking into an outburst, since his recent attempt to gain an apology from Balin and Dwalin who are raiding his pantry completely failed) opens the door to find the brothers bowing in sync to him, before dumping their weapons in his arms.

Kíli lets out a squeak when Thorin grabs hold of his ear when, on the wall, his counterpart scrapes off mud from his dirty boots onto the little decorated box that Bilbo angrily informs is his mother's glory box – _“Don’t do that!”_. Even if the Dwarves aren't really sure what a glory box is, it sounds important and, more to the point, it's terrible manners - especially of Princes! - to do things like that when entering a stranger's home.

"Have you been taught _nothing_?" Thorin growls, and Fíli and Kíli whimper. “You would make your mother ashamed!”

"Sorry, uncle! Sorry, sorry, sorry!"

"It's, it's all right, really. It was just some mud..."

But Bilbo finds nobody is really listening to him. An appalled Dori has drawn his brothers' heads closer and is talking to them in low Khuzdul; probably informing them of the bad things that'll happen if they ever act like that. Bilbo rolls his eyes at the whole spectacle. Sure, it'd been a mess at the time and he'd been mighty upset, but it's in the past now! He's forgiven them all, really. No need to linger on it!

All right. Maybe linger on it a little, Bilbo thinks, watching a bunch of Dwarves fall through his door nearly crushing him, an amused Wizard peering inside the Hobbit’s smial without apology.

Yes. He might linger on it for a _little_ while more …


	3. Wait, Where Did You Say We’re Going?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Thank you everyone who has read, left a comment and/or kudos! I'm so happy that this fic is making someone else happy. This chapter turned out a lot longer than I first planned, but the more the merrier, yes? (or something like that.) I've spent quite some time with this chapter, but it still hasn't been beta-read or anything so I apologize beforehand for any errors (grammatical or otherwise). Hope you enjoy!_

**Chapter 3:**

# Wait, _Where_ Did You Say We're Going?

 **wherein the company of thorin oakenshield learns something new about their burglar,**  
**and said burglar learns more about the stubbornness of dwarves,**  
**and bilbo baggins fights the urge to hit thorin oakenshield's head**

* * *

 _"_   _…Oh, they’re quite a merry gathering, once you’ve gotten used to them.”_

The Wizard uttering this is far too merry himself to the Hobbit's liking. The red-faced, very upset Hobbit who is gesturing widely with his hands, his whole body screaming to anyone seeing him that he is very unhappy and want the Wizard and his company gone as fast as Hobbitly possible. Some of the Dwarves watching find this display somewhat amusing, but most of them are groaning and blushing in embarrassment, since it's them that the Hobbit is - was - angry with. Some, such as Kíli, is also possibly a little afraid. In the time that they have known the Hobbit, the only time really that Bilbo had had any outburst and yelled was back at his smial, and then none of the Company had really known him. Most hadn't taken him very seriously. Now, though, Kíli admits that the Hobbit is a little scary to look at when he's that angry. Scary and cute. Like a very angry little rabbit with some sharp claws and big teeth, or something. (Well, without claws. Or big, sharp teeth.)

 _“I don’t_ want _to get used to them!_ _Look the state of my kitchen - there’s mud trod into the carpet, they’ve pillaged the pantry –_  
_I’m not even going to tell what they’ve done in the bathroom; they’ve all but destroyed the plumbing!_  
_I_ don’t understand _what they’re doing in my home!”_

"No wonder you were so upset with us," Glóin comments. "We deserved to be kicked out of your - _smial_ , was it? - right then and there."

"We've already talked about this," Bilbo says. "I'm not upset anymore. Honestly, Glóin! It was unexpected and at the time unwelcome, but you surely livened up the place. I hadn't seen such controlled chaos since my cousin Fortinbras' birthday party in 1329 (by Shire Reckoning) ..." He gains some odd inquiring looks from Thorin and Balin, and clears his throat. "There were, euhm, quite a few Tooks involved, a pair of stolen fireworks, and a _very_ large sponge-cake," he adds as if it explains everything (which to a Hobbit it does), though the Dwarves only become vaguely confused. Right, of course; how would they know that such a situation could easily equal explosions?

Ori peaks up in interest. "What's a 'tuk'?"

" _Took._ It's an old family name."

"I'd've liked to've seen a party like that," Bofur says, intrigued. "So these Tooks are, what, mischief-makers?"

"One could say that. Another word could be 'free-spirited'," Bilbo answers diplomatically. "It's in the blood, most say."

 _“Excuse me,”_ a shy Ori butts in then in a far-too-kind voice for the situation and the Hobbit’s mood.  
_"I’m sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?”  
_ But before he is given an answer, Fíli appears by his side and takes said item from the other Dwarf’s hands.

All the Dwarves watching suddenly go suspiciously quiet. The actual Fíli, sitting next to his brother, is glancing at his uncle while worriedly biting his lip. “Oh. Crap. Shouldn’t have done that.”

 _“Excuse me, that’s my mother’s West Farthing crockery, it’s over a hundred years old!  
... And can you _ not _do that? You’ll blunt them!”_

_“Oh, d’ya hear that, lads? He said **we’ll blunt the knives** **!** ”_

“Oh, oh crap. We’re so screwed. Uncle is going to strange us all. Oh, Mahal,” Kíli whispers, also looking at a now very dark Thorin. Like the young warrior, half of the Dwarves have begun to lose focus of the magic wall and are looking at each other, then at their leader (who looks very, very disappointed and very, very close to exploding with Durin-fueled rage) and lastly at the red-faced (though for a different reason than anger) Hobbit. “We’re _so_ screwed.”

“It’s all right,” Bilbo tries, again, to convince them. “It’s all in the past. See? I’m not angry with any of you, so if you could all just calm down (you especially, Thorin) and take a breath ... No harm was done - you didn’t actually crack or drop a single plate.”

(He hadn’t had time to check the knives, though.)

"Fíli," Kíli hisses fearfully to his brother, "I'm afraid Uncle is going to start breathing fire any second now ...!"

"Kíli, that isn't actually physically possible."

"Is so!"

"Is not."

"Is too!"

"Will you two cut it out?! Or _I'll_ cut it out for you," Dwalin growls and would have reached for his battle axes if they weren't left behind at Beorn's house. The young brothers immediately fall silent.

(Bilbo wonders if he could learn to growl in that intimidating way as well, or if it's a Dwarven inherited trait. It'd be pretty useful to use against some of his more annoying neighbors poking their noses into other's business.)

* * *

Soon enough there's the rhythmical clanging of dishware and forks being used as drums, and dancing on tables and food being thrown, and a chorus of Dwarves singing - or shouting. (Bofur tries to sing along. Dori looks _most_ disapproving.) Since he's this time not preoccupied with trying to stop the Dwarves, Bilbo takes a moment to actually listen to the lyrics. He can't help but wonder at how all the Dwarves seemed to know - have known - all the words and the tune very neatly, as if they'd rehearsed the number. But they _actually_ couldn't have ... could they? No, there's no way they could have known that he'd be upset with them about throwing around his china...

Actually, _yes,_ when he thinks of it. _Of course_ they could have predicted that he'd have an angry outburst and give them a reason to sing such a silly song. He is after all a Hobbit, and Gandalf could have told them one thing or another while they were travelling from the Blue Mountains to the Shire. Oh, of course. Stupid Wizard, always meddling, always coming up with bad silly ideas to turn people's lives upside down...!

 _Another thing to question Gandalf about,_ Bilbo thinks a little crossly. _I hadn't thought before that Wizards could act like such ... such trolls! "A merry gathering" indeed!_

 _"Blunt the knives and bend the forks!_  
_Smash the bottles and burn the corks!_  
_Chip the glasses and crack the plates!_  
_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"_

"Catchy tune, is it not?" says the Wizard just then, smiling at the chaos unraveling before them.

"Bofur, _no_ ," Thorin orders when said Dwarf reaches for the flute still attached to his belt (for some reason that hadn't been taken away along with their weapons and supplies). "No flutes."

Bofur pouts. "Just for a little bit? A teeny-tinsy _tiny_ bit?"

 _"Cut the cloth and trail the fat!_  
_Leave the bones on the bedroom mat!_  
_Pour the milk on the pantry floor!_  
_Splash the wine on every door!"_

"You heard him. Not now," Balin says.

"I don't mind," Bilbo says but doesn't think anyone is listening.

At least they’ve very synchronized, Bilbo thinks. Team-work and all that. And in the chaos before he’d never noticed how well both Bofur and Dwalin played the flute and the viola – Bilbo hadn’t really thought of Dwarves as the most musical types. Then he remembers how Bofur had sang in Rivendell as well; at that time he’d been less distraught and actually listened. He’d quite liked that song, actually; maybe he could ask Bofur later about it and write it down … Well, not now. Later, once this chaotic 'moh-vee' experience is over.

Next to him Bilbo notices how Thorin is hiding his face in his hands, repeatedly muttering: "Dishonour on the line of Durin! Dishonour on us!" or something of that ilk. Bilbo just rolls his eyes quite fondly, blushing a little in embarrassment at how his other, quite enraged, self is trying to chase after the Dwarves in his home and stop them from throwing around his finest china, without being listened to whatsoever.

Bilbo would quite like to hit the stubborn Dwarf to make him understand that it’s not his fault they were such an unexpected, _abysmally_ rude group of _unwanted_ Dwarves to have barged into his smial that evening, but all is forgiven now, and there’s no need to cry over spilt milk. Honestly! Bilbo cannot remember any time when he'd been surrounded by so many people ashamed of themselves and their actions, least of all towards him.

All of the Dwarves (except Bofur, who is now glaring at Dwalin for confiscating his flute) seem to be in a permanent state of shame or embarrassment and Thorin and Dori in particular is bemoaning the lack of honour on the part of his family and whatnot; it doesn’t matter how many times Bilbo begs them just to "stop apologizing, by Yavanna!” (if Kíli and Fíli start crying again and call him ‘Mr Boggins’ and plead for him to stay _one more time_ …)

 _" ... dump the crocks in a boiling bowl,_  
_pound them up with a thumping pole!_  
_And when you've finished, if they are whole,_  
_send them down the hall to roll!  
_ **_That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"_ **

* * *

Abruptly, all activity in front of them ceases. In the silence, Gandalf lowers his pipe and announces gravely:

_"He is here."_

"Oh, here we go," Bofur says. He sounds far too amused befitting the situation. Though Gandalf made it sound very ominous back then; no wonder the tension in the air had been so high when Thorin had made his first appearance.

_“Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice.  
Wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”_

_“Mark? There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!”_

_“There is a mark; I put it there myself. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce  
the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”_

"How did you get lost, anyway?" Dwalin asks his old friend, raising an eyebrow. "Those Hobbits had signs all over the place, and it was the tallest hill in the village."

Wordlessly Thorin just glares at him; Dwalin doesn't stop smirking.

_“So, this is the Hobbit. Tell me, Mr. Baggins,  
have you done much fighting?”_

_“Pardon me?”_

_“Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?”_

“Oh Mahal, this is so awkward, I’m dying,” Kíli whispers loudly to his brother, who also is wincing.

“Yeah, nothing’s worse than watching Uncle trying, and _failing_ , at flirt-”

A heated glare from Thorin makes them both shut up, word’s half-way through Fíli’s throat. Bilbo isn’t sure why Gandalf is smiling like that though, or why some of the Dwarves let out nervous chuckles. Or why Thorin _still_ is so red in the face.

_“Well, I have some skill at Conkers, if you must know,  
but I fail to see why that’s relevant.”_

_“Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”_

"Rude," says Óin, who for once seems to have heard what is being said. "That's not the way to do it."

"By the way, what's 'conkers'?" Nori asks, when on the wall Thorin is staring at the Hobbit in judgement and poorly hidden dislike. (The actual Thorin is staring at his Hobbit in shame, face red like a tomato under his beard. Again Bilbo has a tiny urge to hit him and tell him to snap out of it; not that he _can_ hit him, Thorin is a Dwarf King-to-be and hitting someone is very rude no matter who they are – but really, this is getting ridiculous). "Some form of competition?"

Bilbo nods. "Er, mostly, yes. Everybody learns it as a fauntling. Basically, you throw conkers at targets. There are rules of course... We used to have these little tournaments when we were little. I've always been quite handy at it."

"Huh. Good to know. Is it useful as a weapon?"

"Well, I've never actually tried hurting anyone with it, but any object could cause damage, I suppose, with enough force behind the throw."

"Hmm, I wonder if we could implement it on a larger scale by -"

"Shhh!"

"Sorry, Ori."

* * *

_“Far to the East, beyond mountains and rivers, lies a single, solitary peak.”_

The Hobbit holds the candle a little higher. “' _The Lonely Mountain'_ ,” he reads out,  
in a tone of voice that suggests he’s never ever heard of the place.

And why would he’d have, at that point? Other than perhaps in stories as a child, no Hobbit would have cause to know much of the outside world. Yes, Bilbo does have vague recollections of his mother and father telling him bedside stories, when he was a tiny faunt, about this Huge Lonesome Mountain Very Far Away, and that a Dragon had come and overthrown it, and cast out all the Dwarves living in it, generations ago. But that’s what it had been to him up until a few months ago: stories, fairytales, old history and nothing more. Nothing to do with the Shire or himself. His mother had never seen anything that far East with her own eyes: she too knew nothing but what she'd heard in rumour or read in books. Then thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard had rudely barged into his home - and look at him now!

“Oh, I know where this is going,” Bofur says, part cheerful, part abashed (unlikely as it may seem of his character).

Bilbo groans and slumps in his chair. Right. This is about the point where he soon faints out of pure shock and fear. Indeed; within five minutes, there’s a lot of chatter around the table and Bofur has started describing exactly who – or _what_ – Smaug is.

_“Aye. Óin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time.”_

_“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold:  
when the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.”_

_“Uh, what beast?”_

“You really didn’t tell him anything,” Balin ponders out loud, looking pointedly at Gandalf. The Wizard is pointedly smoking his pipe to avoid answering. Really, that amount of smoking cannot be healthy, even for someone of the Big Folk.

 _“Well that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity_  
_of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks,_  
_extremely fond of precious metals ...”_

_“Yes, I know what a dragon is.”_

“And now I’m set out to actually find one. Face one. For _real_. Oh, by Yavanna’s green garden, I’ve gone mad,” Bilbo mutters to himself. If his mother could see him now!

 _"I’m not afraid!"_ Ori cries out, standing up. _"I’m up for it.  
I’ll give him a taste of the Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie!”_

"Yeah, I'm sure the dragon will be scared of your slingshot, Ori," says Dwalin with dry humour. "Trembling right down to his talons."

The young Dwarf retorts by sticking out his tongue; a surprisingly daring gesture to do towards a twice-old hardened warrior with enormous biceps. "Oh shush, you brute. Not everyone is big and strong and got two sharp axes to help them out. I'll have you know my aim is impeccable."

 _"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us,"_ Balin says.  _  
"But we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor the brightest.”_

"I think we need to work on the tact, too," Thorin grumbles, as the Dwarves in the smial begin to argue (again), undoubtedly because they've just been called stupid by one of their own. Yes, tact, Bilbo thinks, is important. Though Balin is entirely correct: in what reality does thirteen odd Dwarves and a Hobbit have a chance against a fire-breathing drake who managed to destroy a city and basically wipe out a kingdom? All the odds are against them.

 _"We may be few in number, but we’re fighters, all of us,  
to the last dwarf!” _ Fíli shouts, shaking his hand to emphasize. 

 _“And you forget, we have a wizard in our company,"_ his brother adds. _  
Gandalf will have killed **hundreds** of dragons in his time!”_

“Young people. So confident.” With a sigh Balin shakes his head.

Kíli blinks in confusion. “What? What?”

_“Oh, well now, uh, I, ahem, I wouldn’t say that …”_

“Wouldn’t be the first lie you’ve told anyone, even us, Wizard,” Thorin growls.

 _“How many, then?”_ Dori turns to the Wizard.

_“Uh, ehm...what?”_

_“Well, how many dragons have you killed? Go on, give us a number!”_

While the Dwarves in the smial are shouting and arguing, the Wizard choking on his pipe in embarrassment, the Dwarves watching are very silent. They look at each other. Then at Gandalf, who has now started polishing his pipe to avoid looking at anybody. And in the very awkward silence, Dwalin lets out a small growl, Dori mutters a tiny curse which makes Ori stare wide-eyed at him (since when does Dori swear?!), and Thorin glares. He’s very good at that – glaring.

“You haven’t, have you,” says Thorin after a while. “You haven’t killed a single dragon.”

“With our luck he’s never even faced a dragon before,” Fíli adds grumpily. "Not a one, I would bet!"

Bilbo is the one burying his face in his hands now. Oh, Varda, oh, by all that is green – if his mother could see them all!

 _“ **Shazara**!”_ Thorin shouts, standing up at the foot of the table. _“If we have read these signs, do you not think others_  
_will have read them too?_   _Rumours have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years._  
_Eyes look east to the Mountain - assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people_  
_now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance_  
_to take back Erebor? **Du-bekâr, du-bekâr!** ”_

"Nice, very nice, very inspirational. Kinda zoned out after a bit though," says Nori. "I'm not a Dwarf for long speeches."

"We're lucky he didn't drone on and on for hours," Dwalin says with a smirk. "He can do that, you know, when there's enough ale and cheerful company to be had."

 _“You forget, the front gate is sealed!_ _There is no way into the mountain.”_

_“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true…”_

And from out of his sleeve the Wizard pulls out an ancient looking key, which couldn't have looked more significant even if it'd had the words 'Very Important Heirloom' stamped on it.

“Wait one moment. Do we still have the key, here, with us?” Dwalin whispers to Thorin in a low voice; their leader shakes his head angrily.

“No, it seems to have been left behind, or taken, along with all our weapons and supplies. And the map.”

“That’s not good…”

_"If there is a key, there must be a door!”_

“Oh my god, you are so obvious, brother,” Kíli says dramatically, covering his eyes. “I’m ashamed to be of the same blood.”

 _“These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls,”_ says Gandalf.

_“...There’s another way in!”_

“Now who’s being obvious?!” Fíli cries, bumping his brother’s shoulder.

“Oi!”

“You two, stop acting like forty-year-olds or I will have you grounded for a fortnight,” Thorin groans tiredly. Bilbo thinks it a kind of odd comment, until he remembers that Dwarves age slowly, so naturally they must come of age later as well. Hmm, another thing to ask, when the time is right. At forty most Hobbits are married and expecting their second or third child – apparently it’s not so with Dwarves.

 _“…Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere_  
_in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle-earth who can. The task_  
_I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever,_  
_I believe that it can be done.”_

 _“That’s why we need a burglar!”_ Ori cries out. 

And the Hobbit nods, humming on his breath and not at all understanding the weight of all of this  
or that soon enough he’ll be roped into it, at the point of no return. " _Hm, A good one, too. An expert, I’d imagine.”_

 _“And are you?”_ Glóin eyes the Hobbit with clear qualms of this prospect. After all, the Hobbit does not have the air  
or appearance of a thief – but looks can be deceiving, and no book should be judged by its cover. And any clever  
Burglar would refrain from outing himself.

_“Eh, am I what?”_

Óin, completely mishearing, either by mistake or by will,  
perks up. _“He said he’s an expert!”_

_“M-me? Nononono - I’m not a burglar; I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”_

“Is that true, Master Baggins?” Dori asks, frowning. It's starting to become a permanent feature on his face, now. “You aren’t a Burglar by profession?”

“Erhm, yes, I…” Then Bilbo pauses, remembering the goblin cave and that creature, Gollum, and the gleaming golden ring he’d found – picked up. Stolen. Taken. “Well. I wasn’t at that point. Yet.” _Technically_ he’s speaking the truth.

 _“Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is! Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet._  
_In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit_  
_is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company,_  
_and I have chosen Mister Baggins. There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he’s got a great deal more to offer_  
_than any of you know, including himself. You must trust me on this.”_

Nori makes a noncommittal noise at the back of his throat. “A non-burglar-Burglar-Hobbit, and a Wizard who hasn’t killed a single dragon, and twelve idio… _Dwarrows_. And myself. Well, no wonder this trip has been so nice! … What? What are you guys looking at me like that for?”

“Who’re you calling an idiot?!”

Bifur makes an angry gesture. " **Mamamthagi**!"

"Yeah! That's one step too far!"

“Oh, calm down, Kíli,” Ori says, reaching out to pat the upset Dwarf's arm. “My brother’s just thinking. Out loud. He shouldn’t have done that. It's a bad habit. I've told him about it before. There's nothing wrong with your intellect.”

Kíli stills for a moment, huffing, when squints at his comrade. "... Was that sarcasm?"

"Oh, don't worry about it, brother," Fíli says. (Kíli doesn't look wholly convinced though.)

* * *

 _“Give him the contract,”_ Thorin says, ignoring how the Hobbit before him is pleading,  
saying that they’ve got it all wrong. Which they had (at the time at least). Stupid Dwarves. Stupid Wizard.

Balin hands the long document over. _“It’s just the usual summary of out-of-pocket expenses.  
time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements and so forth.”_

The squeak leaving the Hobbit’s mouth is much like that of a frightened mouse. _“Funeral arrangements?!”_

All of this, though, or most of it, all of the Company had seen and heard for themselves, and little of this meeting was news to them. However some had seen Thorin lean forward to whisper with Gandalf, but none had before heard what had been said. So when their leader turns to Gandalf, as the Hobbit is reading the contract, for a private conversation, everyone listens in closely.

_“I cannot guarantee his safety.”_

_“Understood.”_

_“Nor will I be responsible for his fate.”_

_“… Agreed.”_

“Oooh,” say Fíli and Kíli in choir. Bewildered Bilbo wonders whatever they’re up to. Then the boys begin to chant: “Liar, liar, pants on fire!”

Thorin barks something in Khuzdul at his nephews, and they snigger and wriggle their eyebrows in a very weird manner, but do fall silent (for a while).

 _“…’Terms: Cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profit, if any. Seems fair._  
Uhm, 'Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof  
_including but not limited to lacerations ... evisceration … **incineration** ’?”_

_“Oh, aye, he’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.”_

The Hobbit blinks, looking a little pale. _“Huh.”_

(Thorin is once more muttering about the shame that has brought upon his people. Or will strike them down. Or something like that. This time Bilbo _does_ hit his shoulder, glaring at him, but unfortunately this does not stop the Dwarf from blaming himself or bemoaning the ill way that his Company had treated the Hobbit. Bilbo sighs. A lost cause, that, it seems.)

 _“You all right, laddie?”_ Balin, ever kind and sensible, asks.

_“Uhm, yes, I ... I feel a bit faint.”_

But Bofur has not (unfortunately for himself) yet learned the art of silence. _“Think furnace with wings.”_

 The Hobbit stumbles. _“Air. I need air.”_

“This was the moment you should’ve started shutting up,” Dori says to Bofur, sending him a highly disapproving look, the kind which Ori recognizes very well since Nori is often at the receiving end of it.

“Hey, it’s not my fault!” said Dwarf defends himself. “It’s not like I could’ve predicted that our Burglar was going to –”

_“Flash of light, searing pain, then Poof! you’re nothing more than a pile of ash.”_

_“… nope.”  
_ Without further ado the Hobbit faints.

( _Any_ Hobbit with any common sense would have reacted the same way.)

“Really, you didn’t foresee _at all_ that something like that could have happened?” Nori questions, raising an eyebrow.

_“Very helpful, Bofur.”_

“Yes, well done,” Ori says, also with a surprising touch of sarcasm – he’s always so sweet-mannered usually.

“Yeah! I may be stupid but not _that_ stupid,” Kíli announces while nodding enthusiastically.

Dwalin only groans like in pain. “Mahal’s beard, I’m surrounded by idiots.”

* * *

On the magic wall, Bilbo is hugging a cup of tea to his chest.

_“I’ll be alright, let me just sit quietly for a moment.”_

That feels so long ago, looking at it like that, and Bilbo realizes he's changed already. Maybe not too much, but... he'd no longer faint, he thinks, at the mere mention of a dragon and the possibility of being incinerated by one. Better not if he's meant to actually face one someday soon.

 _“You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long! Tell me, when did doilies and your mother’s dishes_  
_become so important to you? I remember a young Hobbit who always was running off in search of elves and the woods,_  
_who would stay out late, and come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young Hobbit who would have liked_  
_nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. The world is not in your books and maps -_  
_it’s out there.”_

Bilbo can't help but blush a little at the new bout of attention he's getting from the Dwarves because of Gandalf's little speech. And how come the Wizard knew so much of his childhood, anyway? They had met just the once before all this, as this story had also clearly shown, when he was a tiny faunt waving a wooden sword around. Unless of course the Wizard had been up to something all this time and kept an eye out, spied a little here, listened to rumours a little there ...

Oh, that sounded like something the Wizard could do, all right. But evidently Gandalf had seen or heard far too few things to be able to claim to know either Bilbo or his mother and father, Bilbo thinks. Never had there been any word from him during those harsh times during and following the Fell Winter; there had been no letters or visits or any other proof that the Wizard cared about this particular Hobbit family more than he did anybody else.

He can't help but flinch at the thought. Yes, Gandalf had his secrets and claimed to know a great many things, but he has such an awful habit of sticking his big nose in matters that it isn't supposed to be. It's actually very odd that no Thain has yet ever officially named the old geezer a Disturber of the Peace and has him kicked out of the Shire for good - Gandalf certainly has it coming!

_“I can’t just go running off into the blue! I am a Baggins, of Bag End.”_

But he had run off into the blue. Sure, he'd left a bunch of hastily written letters on his desk and the key to Bag End for his gardener to find in his mailbox; brief words to his nearest relatives of where he was going and with whom (sort of: he'd just written "going in a trip with a group of friends of Gandalf's to help them with an issue") and how long he might be gone (meaning: he had no idea when he might be back). The main word in the letters had been "adventure" and wasn't that going to cause a stir! Yes, he's sure, once he gets back to the Shire there'll be an uproar. They may have dragged the Water by then, maybe even sent a Bounder or two looking for him. The Thain might either think him mad or have a good laugh - the Thain is after all both a Took and a relative. Either way, there's no telling what kind of chaos that might greet him on his homecoming ... if he ever comes home. 

Again Thorin has started muttering about his shame. "I dragged you out of home, into the dangers of the wild, without considering -" he starts bemoaning but Bilbo cuts the Dwarf off.

"Stop it now, Thorin. It's all right. I'm here, and I'm glad to be here. Now please stop saying 'dishonour' and 'line of Durin' in the same sentence, or I _will_ hit you."

Thorin exhales slowly. "If that is what you wish."

_"You are also a Took. Did you know that your great-great-great-great-uncle,  
Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse?”_

"Whoa, that'd make him taller than a Dwarf!" Bombur exclaims, pausing in his eating of a very large sandwich from the food-filled table next to them (which seems to be replenishing itself, never running out of food or drinks. Bilbo would've liked to own such a magic table. Would come in very handy for garden parties). "I've never seen any Hobbit that tall - or even Dwarrows so tall."

"You haven't seen that many Hobbits, brother," Bofur comments. "But you got a point there."

_“Yes.”_

It's more of a sigh than a proper answer, as if the Hobbit has heard the tale a hundred times before.

 _"Well, he could!"_ Gandalf says with the conviction of a witness, which is not unlikely. No one of the Company  
is even sure how old the Wizard is. _"In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the goblin ranks ..."_ _  
_

Gandalf starts a long history lesson, which is news to everyone except the Wizard and Hobbit themselves.

"Your ancestor fought a battle?" Thorin asks, making round eyes. "I thought the Shire was safe, that it'd never been attacked! That it's peaceful."

"Oh. Well. It's, it's peaceful _mostly_. We don’t go looking for trouble or start war easy, you know. Nobody nowadays can even remember what a war really means. But yes, that was the Battle of Greenfields in 1147 (in Shire Reckoning, that is). That's the year … 2747 of the Third Age, yes, that’s right. If I remember my history grandfather taught me, Goblins came down and attacked the North Farthing..." The Dwarves look at him confused. Of course, they are entirely unfamiliar with Shire geography or history or anything the like. Bilbo finds himself clarifying unprompted: "The Shire is divided into four Farthings: North, South, East and West. Hobbiton is in the North Farthing. Wish I had a map with me to show you… Anyway, back in 2747, when the Goblins came, Bandobras Took gathered all the bounders he could find -"

"’Bounders’? What’s that?" Ori asks. Vaguely Bilbo registers that the young Dwarf is now taking notes in his journal, opened inkpots resting in his lap.

"They’re guardsmen, rangers of a sort, if you will. They keep Big Folk and such out of the Shire - watchers usually, and they volunteer for the job, but all are trained with the bow. Anyway, Bandobras was the tallest Hobbit there ever was so it's true he rode a horse - that's how the story goes, anyway - and he led the charge. There are only a few dozen bounders to be found at any given time, but all the twelve Shiriffs were there too, and a lot of farmers who grabbed their pitchforks to defend the Shire." He pauses, remembering how his mother would tell the story with pride and fondness, and how he'd always dream then as a fauntling of his own adventures. He'd wanted to be as great and brave as the people in the stories - his mother certainly had been. "Anyway, I'm not so sure that thing about knocking the chief goblin's head off is true, but the Bullroarer won the battle."

"Oh, it's all very true," Gandalf puts in, daring to speak up. "Quite a remarkable Hobbit he was, Bullroarer Took. You ought to be proud to be his descendant. You are made of the same stern stuff."

A shadow falls over Thorin's face and the Hobbit frowns. "What's wrong?"

"I'm simply realizing I was wrong about Hobbits and the Shire. I thought your kind lazy and naive, with no knowledge of the world and its perils. I thought the people of the Shire had never known danger," the Dwarf admits. "But you speak as if you still have these bounders around and if you have an actual military force like that, then -"

"We're not stupid, you know," Bilbo cuts in, but not harshly. Because why would the Dwarves know about these things, really? The Shire was a tiny land, and its inhabitants never boasted (well, other than about the size of its crops and that was a very internal affair, neighbours competing at the marketplace). "We're creatures of comfort and peace, for sure, but there are some who has more experience with the world, and we don't just ramble about in the Shire without any kind of organization. Of course, the Shire is still safer than Buckland, for example, what with living right on the edge of the Old Forest. I can’t imagine that being very nice! But the Thain makes sure we're safe."

"So this Thain is the Commanding General of your military forces?" Dwalin asks, sounding ... impressed? A little, yes. A little impressed that these tiny things that he'd thought to be helpless and defenceless and useless in the face of fear, actually have such courage; not to mention if some of them did train with weaponry - not swords and axes, but weaponry nonetheless ... That they have this system of protection, not quite an army but some kind of military force. He hadn't ever thought Hobbits to have that. (Maybe the Wizard wasn't entirely senseless in choosing a Hobbit as their Burglar.)

"No, no! He's the overseer of the Council of Mayors and so forth, and the Shiriffs; they're the ones who usually organize the bounders. Unless there's a huge crisis like with the Greenfields the Thain takes complete charge. There's a Master who cares for Buckland in similar way."

"A King then," Dwalin decides.

Bilbo chuckles. "What? Oh, nonsense!"

"Well, is he elected, or is the position hereditary?" Dori asks. Next to him Ori is frantically taking notes in his book, so fast it's a wonder he's not running out of ink.

"Er, it's usually inherited,” the Hobbit says, wondering where all these questions are coming from. “It started with the Brandybucks, see, but with the division of the Shire and Buckland several hundred years ago it went to the Tooks. Currently it's Fortinbras II Took - his father was very old when he got the position, see, so he died rather rapidly after getting the title. Fortinbras got the position just a couple of years ago and he was rather peeved, I tell you! I don't envy him, really; he'd hoped to be free of the responsibility for a while yet. Plus he's head of the Took family, so that's twice the load really –"

"So you know him personally?" Thorin asks, cutting off his tirade. Hobbits appear to be intimate, familiar folk after all; this is the first time he's heard of ranks and titles amongst them, and Bilbo has never really hinted before at division of status among his kin. Maybe there is, though.

Bilbo nods, wondering where this is going. With this discussion they're missing out quite a few things going on on the magic wall, after all. "Well, yes, he's my cousin, on my mother's side. She's the oldest of the Old Took's daughters, see. Anyway, since he lives in Tookland we never meet that much, but Fortinbras likes writing and venting his problems to me. Last time there was this _ridiculous_ dispute between some farmers over these pigs and a carrot field, which took a whole two months to settle because –"

Suddenly the Dwarves are on their feet, or most of them at least, and all staring at him. Blinking in the dim light, Bilbo wonders if they'd been hurt or upset, or if they sensed danger.

"What? What's wrong?" Do they need to run? Oh no, he _really_ hopes they don't need to run. They’ve only just started watching the ‘mo-vee’ after all, which hasn't proven to be painful or dangerous or uncomfortable, and there is food here, which is not guaranteed if they leave this strange room. He really wants to stay here with the food.

Thorin is staring at him mouth agape, but at least not seeming to be wanting to run anywhere. Startled Bilbo looks from Dwarf to Dwarf, who is either staring, bowing their heads or, in the case of Ori, clumsily curtsying.

"You never told us you're royalty!" Fíli cries.

Dori is bowing his head - bowing! Not to mention Bofur, who is so baffled that he topples out of his chair and a bowl full of chips crashes onto his hatted head. Just behind said Dwarf, Bifur is signing frantically in iglishmêk - Bilbo wishes he could understand the signs.

"What? I'm _not_! Wait, wait, I’m not any kind of _royalty_. Ridiculous! The notion, even!"

But Fíli and Kíli look delighted and bow in sync, starting insisting on calling him 'Prince Bilbo' now; and Ori is writing it all down with a very concentrated look on his face. Once again, Balin is apologizing for their earlier behaviour at Bag End, while Dwalin is staring and muttering, "Well I'll be damned."

Gandalf (unhelpful as always, stupid Wizard) smirks and puffs his pipe, far too knowledgeable and bemused than should be legal. Bilbo _certainly_ isn't. The Wizard should help him out and explain to these stubborn Dwarves what he means - but no! Stupid Dwarves. Stupid Wizard.

"Look, I'm not some prince or anything like that! Fíli, Kíli, stop doing that!" Bilbo cries, trying to make them all sit down and forget all this and instead focus on what's happening on the magic wall. Far more interesting, that. He’s starting to regret answering all those questions in the first place. "Hobbits don't have titles like that. We don't. The Thain isn't some revered King, he's just - he's our leader, but not - not a King and not royalty; and _I'm_ certainly **not**!"

"I'm sorry if we have offended you," Thorin says. Is that a smile? It could be a smile. "But in the eyes of any Dwarf you certainly would be of blue blood, if the Took family is that which rules the Shire and you are a descendant of the Ki- Thain. We know of no other way to look upon it."

"Well, Thain as a cousin or not, I'm still just Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, not some prince nonsense," Bilbo mutters, arms crossed. "Please, Fíli, Kíli, stop that."

They won't.

"Thorin, make them stop!"

"You heard him. Respect his wishes," the Dwarf thankfully says, and his nephews fall (momentarily at least) silent. "Would you prefer to be called Master Baggins then?"

"Yes. Or just Bilbo. We're no strangers anymore, you know, and I've never been much for formality."

"Well then, Bilbo it is. Fíli, Kíli, apologize."

"Honestly it's fine -"

"Sorry, Bilbo! Sorry!" Honestly, by their faces, one might think they'd been caught stealing Bell Gamgee's apple pies from the windowsill!

The stupid Wizard is _still_ smiling and smoking his pipe.

* * *

It seems that the magic wall had been paused in its storytelling during their quite lively discussion of the Hobbit's past, because even if they'd been talking for several minutes the images seemed to have frozen during that time. Maybe whoever showing them this doesn't want them to miss a single moment of it. Very clever. (It'd be very handy to be able to do that in real life, Bilbo thinks, freeze and unfreeze time - imagine what one could get done with in one single day with that kind of power!)

_"...you’ll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back.”_

_“Can you promise that I **will** come back?”_

_“No. And if you do, you will not be the same.”_

"Well, that's ... uplifting," Nori comments.

"Don't worry, Bilbo," Balin says. "I'm sure you'll return. You Hobbits have proven hardier than I ever thought."

"Oh, right. Then, if I get back, I'll probably be labeled a crazy adventurer by my neighbours and given some silly epithet like 'Mad Baggins' or something."

(Bilbo completely misses how the Dwarves frown at his statement, as if they're personally insulted by the very thought of someone thinking ill of their Hobbit.)

 _"That’s what I thought. I'm sorry, Gandalf,_  
_I can’t sign this. You’ve got the wrong Hobbit.”_

The Wizard seems to have utterly failed to convince him to go on a quest - well, it seems so, but the Company knows that not to be true, as the Hobbit is sitting among them right now.

"I knew you were the right Hobbit all along," Gandalf says, eyes twinkling, and for once Thorin is in agreement with the Wizard. So much would have been different without the Hobbit here with them - and not necessarily for the better.

"No need to sound so smug," Bilbo grumbles, crossing his arms. "You're a Wizard."

"Yes, it doesn't count," Thorin agrees. "Technically I could say you cheated on the bet on whether Bilbo would join us, Wizard. In which case you would have to pay back what you won."

"Ahem, oh no, Master Oakenshield, I would never."

In time to save the Wizard from another glare from Thorin, Fíli suddenly stands up on his seat, raising his mug of - well, it's not ale or wine, it's something much sweeter and dark and full of weird bubbles - well, some nice stuff and urges the others to do the same. "I say we cheer for our Burglar, for joining our Quest, and celebrate that we're a Company! For Bilbo!"

Bilbo chokes. "Now, really, that's not necessary -"

Of course nobody listens to his protests.

"Cheer! Huzzah! Hurray! Bottom's up!"

"Happy birthday!"

"Kíli!"

"... What? It seemed fitting."

* * *

 _“It appears we have lost our Burglar. Probably for the best. The odds were always against us._  
_After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy-makers ..._  
_hardly the stuff of legend.”_

_"There are a few warriors amongst us.”_

_"Old warriors."_

_"I will take each and every one of these Dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills._  
_For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, honour, a willing heart -_  
_I can ask no more than that.”_

"And you have all shown that, and more," Thorin adds loudly so that all of his Company may hear. There are no words to express how grateful he is. They have all risked so much, played a gamble with their lives as well as the future of their houses - all in the slight hope that they may prevail and retake Erebor and slay a dragon.

_"You don’t have to do this. You have a choice. You’ve done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us  
in the Blue Mountains, a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.”_

But Thorin holds up the key that Gandalf had earlier given him.

 _“From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the Dwarves of Erebor_  
_would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me."_

_"Then we are with you, laddie. We will see it done.”_

"No truer words have been spoken!" Fíli says. "We're with you, Uncle. We'll always be. We'll reclaim Erebor, _together_."

They all raise their mugs to cheer on that.

* * *

Then the room is filled with singing, low voices of their own dreaming of Erebor as night falls. It's very beautiful, Bilbo thinks, to hear it like this. He can distinguish several of the voices quite well now, too, he hadn't heard the song this well back in his smial. Thorin has a very deep beautiful voice, the Hobbit thinks. Not what he'd expected from such a grumpy, rough-looking Dwarf.

"Oh, that's nice, but we skipped like ten verses or something," Glóin says, "didn't we?"

"Yeah but who has time for fifteen verses?" Kíli says.

"Young ones. So impatient," Dori mutters on his breath.

"There are more verses?" Bilbo asks curiously. He'd really like to hear more of that song, if he could, even though it spins a sad tale. 

"Yes, loads," Fíli groans. "And Balin forced us to learn _all_ of them!" 

Thorin, on the other hand, seems a lot more enthusiastic at the Hobbit's inquiry. "Indeed there is. I can teach you the rest sometime, if, if you'd like, Master Baggins." Why he has that slightly embarrassed stammer Bilbo is unsure of, but then Thorin can be very odd sometimes; confident, yet quiet, a leader yet unwilling to take center stage. Maybe he's shier than he's letting on.

"Wonderful! I'd be happy to, Thorin." He smiles, and this makes Thorin smile back at him, and the two are not looking at the magic wall at all for a long while. No one makes any move to show that they're watching the pair, but _of course_ everyone is watching them intently. But Bilbo and Thorin seem completely unaware of their audience. They don't notice either how Dwalin subtly gestures in Iglishmêk to his brother, signing _[five gold pieces]_ and Balin signing back _[the agreement was three]_ , and Dwalin responding _[I won the bet. You shut up]_.

(Kíli hides his face his hands with a pained whimper, whispering: "Oh Mahal, this is so embarrassing to watch, I'm dying, I don't want to watch Uncle flirting -" until Fíli pokes him in the arm.)

* * *

And Bilbo wakes up to an empty Bag End, no sign of the Dwarves having been there, except the contract lying there open.

Off he goes, rushing out of the smial dressed in his finest velvet coat and carrying a far-too-little pack (which he really hadn't thought through at the time; he didn't even bring an oilskin! Really far too impulsive). He jumps over fences and criss-crosses the green hills and leaps over a neighbour’s pumpkin.

_“I’m going on an adventure!”_

And all the while Fíli and Kíli keep cheering: “Go Bilbo! Go Bilbo!”

(At least they’ve cut out with the 'Boggins’ nonsense.)

Further and further away he runs, out of Hobbiton toward the edge of the East Farthing, where eventually the Company and Gandalf come into view in a small sunlit glade.

"You really decided it there that morning, laddie," Balin remarks. No wonder the Hobbit seemed so unprepared for such a journey – he’d carried very few essential supplies, no warm coat or jacket or any sort of winter’s clothing, and closer inspection later on the journey showed he’d actually brought a couple of books with him, as if he’d thought he’d be going on a pleasant holiday.

At the time, the Company had thought him naïve and stupid and far too Hobbitish, and a great liability. But this put a new light on things: no wonder he came so unprepared, with how he had refused the Wizard but been imposed upon anyway, and somehow convinced without having time to plan ahead properly. Had he even left word to his kin where he was going? This, Balin thinks, they need to talk about, and if possible send word back to the Shire: it’s no good if the Hobbits are presuming Mr Baggins to be missing or dead, especially given his relation to the Thain.

"Yes, well. That was probably my Took side taking over. My father's family would've been appalled!"

"I'm sure they would've been proud of you," Thorin murmurs, and Bilbo chuckles.

"That's kind of you to say, but I fear that when I get back, there'll be a ruckus over who gets to take over Bag End because they'll think I've drowned in the Water or the like. I could bet the Tooks would find it terribly amusing, though. Me being on an adventure, that is, not me drowning because I'm sure only Lobelia Sackville-Baggins would find that amusing. And, well, yes - mother would probably find me going on an adventure fitting. Always told me stories, you know, about journeys of her own, and as a fauntling I wanted to go with her on adventures. Father had such amazing patience. Respectable Hobbits shouldn't go on adventures, see, and such things really aren't encouraged anywhere past fauntlinghood. My father was a proper gentlehobbit - he had to be, head of the Bagginses and all that."

"Head of - you're the head of your family?" Thorin exclaims. Not only was he of blue blood, but in charge of the Baggins family too! Oh, this was getting more and more complicated by the minute. Sharing a glance with Balin reveals that his old mentor and friend is thinking the same: they really need to have a word with the Hobbit shortly, to properly sort things out. What more surprises did their Burglar have in store?

Bilbo just looks at him, silently thinking: _Oh Yavanna, spare me of all these stubborn stupid Dwarves. And we've been sitting here for only half an hour!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I really just had to cut the chapter there or it'd_ never _end ..._
> 
>  **Wordlist (Khuzdul)**  
>  **Shazara** Silence  
>  **Du bekâr** To arms  
>  **Mamamthagi** (I'm) being insulted _([Source.](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/)) This translation is probably very inaccurate. I know very little about Khuzdul. That's a difficulty when you have a character (Bifur) who can't speak the Common Tongue at all!_
> 
>  
> 
>    
>  **Additional notes**  
> [Source on Hobbit family trees, etc.](http://lotrproject.com/)
> 
> The date for the mentioned Fortinbras II Took's birthday party, and the birthday party in of itself, is completely non-canon which means I just made it up. That party involved "quite a few Tooks, a pair of stolen fireworks, and a very large sponge-cake", according to Bilbo. It took place in S.R. 1329 | T.A. 2929, meaning Bilbo was 39 years old and his cousin Fortinbras turned 51 (he was born in S.R. 1278 | T.A. 2878).  
> (The time of the Quest is T.A. 2941, when Bilbo is 50 and that would mean Fortinbras is 63 years old.)
> 
> Some trivia: in "real" Westron, according to Prof. Tolkien, the name Took is actually spelled Tûk  
> The year 1329, by Shire Reckoning, is the same as Third Age 2929. Bilbo's cousin Fortinbras II would that year turn 51 years old, and Bilbo would be 38-39. It's the same year as Arathorn, Aragorn's father, marries Gilraen.  
> Book-Thorin makes a whole lot of long speeches that Bilbo zones out of and doesn't bother to listen to/remember. Obviously there are some differences to book-Thorin and movie-Thorin, but I reckon that Dwalin, being an old friend of Thorin's, would know more about all of his different sides. Including the more talkative one.  
> The 'weird sweet, bubbly stuff' that they're drinking is some form of soda. I figure Fíli and Kíli would like it a lot.  
> In the book [the Misty Mountains song](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Far_over_the_Misty_Mountains_Cold) contains ten verses, not two as in the film. (We all know how Tolkien loved his poetry.)
> 
> On another note, does anyone have ideas for how to characterize Bombur and Bifur and some of the other guys that were given very little time in this chapter? I find them quite hard to write given that in all the canon sources they are given little or no lines or space of their own, no way to figure out what kind of characters they actually are. There are so many voices in this fic that I find it difficult to keep track and give everyone their own voice and time. Any suggestions or ideas or lines, or whatever, would be very welcome!
> 
>  
> 
> _**Note (2016-01-04):** I went back and corrected a factual error. The Battle of Greenfields takes place in T.A. 2747, which is the same as year **1147** by Shire Reckoning (S.R.). I previously wrongly stated it was 1347 S.R._
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. The Obligatory Road-Trip Montage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hello! I've been unable to write for awhile because of moving and redecorating and other things keeping me busy, but now I'm back on the writing track. Thank you everyone who has read, left kudos or written a comment - I'm so thankful for all kinds of support; I keep writing this thanks to you!_   
>  _Hope you people will enjoy this chapter as well._
> 
> _Note: some things edited/corrected, and some Khuzdul lines added for Bifur. 2016-01-03._

**Chapter 4:**

# The Obligatory Road-Trip Montage

**wherin **thorin oakenshield is upset (again),**  
** **fíli and kíli are in trouble (again), the company**  
**expresses their annoyance with the wizard (again),**  
**tea is over-consumed and**   **bilbo just wants to give  
the dwarves a very big hug ** **(maybe some ice-cream could help?)**

* * *

Images rapidly move past them on the magic wall, but most of them are just short moments from the first weeks on the road, and nothing of particular interest. The swelling music is very fascinating though and it's very fitting, Bilbo thinks, to hear the same melody as the Dwarves had sung in Bag End but as a much bigger theme of horns and violins. (He _really_ wonders where the musicians are hiding.)

Then the music ceases, and the scene is a night of many from the journey and it takes a while to place it. Several of the Dwarves are asleep, snoring loudly (though none snores as loud as Glóin), while Fíli and Kíli are keeping watch. Gandalf also appears to be awake, smoking his pipe as usual. It could be any night on the road, really, but it must hold some significance else they'd not be shown it.

Bilbo, the one on the wall, startles awake. Probably because of the snoring. His hair's all askew and he looks tired still, but stands up anyway to stretch. At that time no one had paid any especial heed to him, so they'd never noticed before when he'd snuck over to one of the ponies to give them an apple - one that was part of his own rations. To see such a gentle, so very _Hobbitish_ act, despite the harsh reality of their journey, causes Thorin to quirk a smile.

_“It’s our little secret, Myrtle. You must tell no one.”_

"So that's why you and the ponies got along so well," Bofur exclaims. "They always tried to bite me!"

"What on Middle-earth did you do to make them do that?" Bombur asks his brother.

The hat-clad Dwarf lifts his hands trying to convey his innocence. "I don't know!"

"Maybe they're allergic to your hat," suggests Nori with a snicker, causing Bofur to clamp onto said beloved head-wear with a frightened expression on his face, like an invisible hand could at any point reach out and take it from him.

"Wait, 'Myrtle'?" Thorin blurts, watching the scene unfold. "I don't remember that we named the ponies anything in particular." They'd acquired the animals for their endurance and strength for this journey, and not for a small sum either; Thorin hadn't been particularly interested in his pony personally, other than making sure the animal was well enough to travel for as long as possible.

"That was Bilbo," says Fíli. "He asked about them one of the first nights we made camp. Well, asked Ori, because I think the rest of us made him kind of nervous, euhm - anyway, he named them after that. Myrtle, Daisy, Bella, Bungo, Ponto, Lily - what were the other ones?"

Bilbo squirms a little in his chair. Why did they have to keep directing attention at him all the time? And what's so odd about naming the ponies anyway? It's just common courtesy to acknowledge the kind creatures by individualizing them (and feeding them an apple now and then; even horses like to eat more than just grass).

"Right, I remember: Pansy, Minty, Mungo, Bingo, Drogo ... Rosa, Polo and Fosco. That makes fourteen," Kíli says while nodding and counting on fingers and toes. "I had Pansy, Fíli rode Polo. I think Uncle had Bungo."

"Those sound like very Hobbit-like names," Balin says, casting a glance at the Company's own Hobbit.

"Er, yes," Bilbo answers. "I named them after family, see."

Thorin leans in, intrigued. There's just so much they don't know about Hobbits and Bilbo in particular, so much he's realizing that he wants to learn. "Who is Bungo then? The Hobbit original."

"My father."

Something warms in Thorin's chest, mayhap gratitude, though he can't name it properly. Bilbo struggles but still feels his cheeks flush at the look that Thorin gives him. (Thorin looking at him, no matter his mood, is always rather intense.) "Then I'm honoured to have ridden the pony you named after him."

"Oi, you're making _me_ blush," Nori not-very-helpfully butts in.

Suddenly all the Dwarves want to know too just which pony theirs too and who it was named after, and Bilbo finds himself explaining about uncles and aunts and cousins, first and seconds and one or two thirds. (That makes the Dwarves unfortunately rather confused - they've never bothered with second cousins like ever in their whole history.)

"I hope they're all right," Ori says, sounding worried and a little sad. "I mean, the ponies ran away when the wargs came for us."

Kíli groans. "Ugh, don't remind me of that day. That was a bad day. The _height_ of bad days. The beginning of a _long row_ of bad days."

"I am sure they are fine, young Ori," Gandalf says with that typical don't-worry-I've-got-it-sorted kind of voice which may or may not be reassuring. "They are clever animals. They'll find their way back home."

* * *

Then the howling of wargs echoes in the distance. With their narrow escape from the wargs and the flight to the Carrock not even a week past, Bilbo violently shivers, unable to stop it. He's never liked wolves of any sort, not since the Fell Winter (before that they were just stories); but with that encounter, and being chased by the wargs - who surely even now are seeking them out - that feeling is even worse, and he fears he'll have many vivid nightmares in the coming months.

"You alright?" Bofur asks, who must have noticed his ashen face and badly hidden grimace.

"...Yes, I’m fine. Just, I don't like wolves. Never have."

The comment sparks further interest from his friends. Nori leans in; the thief has mostly observed until now. "From before the quest, you mean?"

"Yes. Bad memories. Maybe I could tell you later, but..."

Thorin nods in understanding. Whatever memory the scene has stirred within the Hobbit, now is not the time or place to explain, and Thorin doesn’t wish to cause him any undue pain by reminding him more of it. The Hobbit may tell them when he feels ready. Thorin knows himself the emotions of grief and terror all too well. "Of course."

_"What was that?"_

_"Orcs."_

"That," Bofur says loudly, "was _not_ helpful, Kíli."

The Dwarf in question crosses his arms defensively. "Hey! At least _I_ never made Bilbo faint."

"Don't hold it against me! I was a very different Dwarf then, I'll have you know."

_"Orcs?"_

_"Throat-cutters. There'll be dozens of them out there,"  
_ Fíli says in a very dark and solemn tone. _"The lonelands are crawling with them."_

_“They strike in the wee small hours when everyone’s asleep,"_ his brother joins in.  
_"Quick and quiet, no screams. Just lots of blood.”_

"Fíli, Kíli."

"Yes, Uncle?"

"You're both grounded. (Again.)"

"What?! But, but we just joking! And we've already said sorry like at least twice!"

"And if you say another word on the matter I shall have your mother know of what you've been up to."

_That_ makes the brothers go quiet. For a while.

_“You think that’s funny? You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?”_

Kíli looks down, ashamed. _“We didn’t mean anything by it.”_

_“No, you didn’t. You know nothing of the world.”_

"We know a lot more now than we did six months ago," Fíli says seriously, as if trying to make amends for previous mistakes, and begins counting on his hands. "Like: always avoid trolls at _any_ cost, don't camp in strange caves in the Misty Mountains; Elves aren't a 100% evil but aren't to be trusted still because they can be useful sometimes; Hobbits are a lot braver than we'd first thought..."

Wholeheartedly enthusiastic Kíli grins, momentarily forgetting their Uncle's wrath or the fact they've just been grounded (again). "We could write a handbook. A traveler's guide: 'Middle-earth in the Third Age, A Traveler's Itinerary: What to Avoid and the Best Inns, by Kíli and Fíli of the Line of Durin'."

With a dry snort, Dwalin shakes his head. "Yeah, right."

Trying to be supportive (because in it's nature mostly) Ori smiles at the two brothers. "I wouldn't mind owning that book. (Even if I'm not sure if I trust you two writing it)."

"Thanks, Ori."

_“Don’t mind him, laddie. Thorin has  
more cause than most to hate Orcs."_

* * *

It had been one thing to hear Balin speak of the Battle of Azanulbizar (Bilbo had learned the name later, one of the few pieces of Khuzdul he'd actually been allowed to learn, kindly translated by Ori once he'd understood that Bilbo had picked the word up) - but _seeing_ it is a whole other matter.

The armies seem never ending, rows upon rows of dark orcs and heavily armoured Dwarves. And there's Thorin - younger; but older than in Erebor. Unlike most other Dwarves they can see he wears no helmet, or he's lost it, and no shield, and blood splattered onto his armour. A younger version of Balin is there too, his hair dark and full; and Dwalin with _actual_ hair on his head and fewer tattoos, though it’s hard to see in the quickly flashing images.

_"After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thrór_  
_tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf Kingdom of Moria. But_  
_our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions_  
_of Orcs led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler._  
_The giant Gundabad Orc had sword to wipe out the line_  
_of Durin. He began by beheading the King.”_

And there is Azog, the pale orc, holding up the head of Thorin's grandfather, Thrór. Bilbo has to look away from the brutality of it all. There's so much blood on the ground, the pale stone covered with bodies littered like leaves after a harsh storm. Fíli and Kíli stare in horror, now seeing the actual memories that their 'joke', so many weeks ago, stirred within their uncle.

_“Thráin, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing._  
_Taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless._  
_Defeat and death were upon us._ _That is when I saw him - a young  
Dwarf prince facing down the pale Orc.”_

It's strange, because Bilbo has always considered the Dwarves as rather large, in the beginning intimidating people. They're not really Big Folk, but almost, and they all have at least a couple of inches on him. But now, seeing a young Thorin facing down Azog, fighting him in desperation and anger, Thorin looks so - small. It's not quite right, Bilbo decides. He doesn't realize how hard he's gripping the sides of the chair he's sitting in until Azog swings his hammer harshly knocking Thorin's shield off his arm, causing the Dwarf to stumble down the rocky ground, also losing his sword in the process. Bilbo flinches, nearly cries out - it's terrifying to watch even if he knows, rationally, that Thorin will be fine. Of course he'll be - this is the past they're watching, and now Thorin is sitting right next to him! Still, his heart is hammering fast and hard. He can't imagine what Thorin might feel like right now, reliving it a second time.

_“He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armour rent,  
wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield.”_

Then Thorin manages to grab a sword - maybe his own, dropped from earlier, but more likely that of another Dwarf already fallen. With a mighty yell he strikes and then Azog is grasping at the stump of his arm, cut off right below the elbow.

_“Azog the Defiler learned that day_  
_that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.”_

"Why am I feeling that that line is somehow going to be majorly important and maybe even be proven wrong sometime soon?" mutters Fíli to his brother, who is busy clinging to his older brother and leaning as far away from their Uncle as possible, still afraid of Thorin's wrath. (A just reaction given that not a long time after this moment they're probably going to have to watch the troll incident, which means Thorin is going to see just how they failed at guarding the ponies and sending Bilbo alone to face the three big creatures and subsequently almost get eaten. Yeah, better find cover now.)

The Dwarves are charging now, the tide of the battle changed as the Orcs' leader is carried inside the gates of Moria - wounded, but not dead. Definitely, unfortunately  _not_ dead, as they've learned now.

_" **Du bekâr**!" _ With a shout, raising his sword,  
Thorin leads the charge toward the mountain wall.

"I should have cut off his head when I had the chance!" growls Thorin darkly.

"You couldn't have known," Balin tries to comfort his old friend, even though it's in vain. "None of us could have known what would happen afterward. By all right such a wound should have been deadly." No Dwarf or Man or Elf, or any of the free folk, would have fared well with such an injury. The fever alone could easily kill even the most hardened warrior. They had truly believed the beast to be mortally injured; especially since the giant Orc was not spotted by any scouts or spies for decades afterwards, and there were no reports indicating that it might have survived.

_“Out forces rallied and drove the Orcs back._  
_And our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast nor song  
that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived ...”_

The battle is over, but the place is littered with dead bodies, Orcs and Dwarves alike, blood and smoke slowly curling toward the pale sky. There's no rain, but  glimpse of sunlight. A few Dwarf survivors - they can see Dwalin and Balin, their foreheads touching, relieved to see each other alive and relatively unscathed - are walking through the sea of death, looking for survivors. Others are sitting or lying or standing in shock, still and silent. It's eerie and so wrong. Without thinking, Bilbo reaches over to grasp Thorin's arm, squeezing it in a quiet gesture of comfort. All this happened decades ago, but the images now before them are so sharp and real, and Bilbo knows himself the potency of memories.

Then the young Thorin comes into view. Despite all the horrible things that have happened, he's still standing, and appears to be without major injury. In his left hand he's still holdng onto the oaken branch, the shield he'd used which would after become his famous epithet, and the shining sun makes him appear haloed by light.

_"And I thought to myself then; there is one that I could follow. There is one_  
_I could call King,"_ finishes the old Balin. Thorin turns and it's a long,  
serious moment, the music trembling, as the other Dwarves look at him  
like realizing for the first time just who and what he is.

_“And the pale Orc?"_ Bilbo asks. _"What happened to him?”_

_“He slunk back into the hole whence he came,"_ Thorin  
spits angrily. _"That filth died of his wounds long ago.”_

"We were so wrong. Who knows what else we've believed falsely, or been told wrongly?" Thorin says, shooting Gandalf a sour look. "Did you know Azog was alive?"

The Wizard sighs. "I had a vague notion. I wasn't certain."

"And you didn't care to mention this _notion_ at all? A warning would've been nice," Bofur cries, upset. "If we'd even suspected that beast to be alive we might've found a way _not_ to be chased by Wargs! I almost lost my hat during that dash!"

"Oi, you care more about your hat than our lives?" Dori exclaims, affronted.

"Well, it's a nice hat."

* * *

Then, the scene fades and they see the same outcropping where they had camped that night, but from another angle; a forest further up. And there's a warg and an orc rider, a few other of the same scum behind it.

"They'd spotted us even that early," Dwalin says, dismayed. They'd all been awake at that point, not just those on watch, and not a single one of them had spotted the scouts. "And we did not see until it was nearly too late. We’ve been careless, far too careless."

“Maybe that’s the point of watching this? That voice did say we weren’t heading for a happy ending,” Ori suggests thoughtfully. “Maybe we’re meant to watch this and change things in the future.”

“That does sort of make sense,” Bilbo agrees. “But I still wonder who sent us here, and where ‘here’ _is_ anyway, and how long it’s going to take watching our journey … it’s apparent there are major time jumps but, what if we’re stuck here for hours and hours? days? _weeks_?” The mere prospect makes his heart stutter in fear. It’s a small, dark room this, for the width of the walls and ceiling, and without windows there is no sunlight to judge the time. It’s not a comfortable Hobbit hole.

“We’ll find a way out,” Thorin promises, “we have to. We have to reach Erebor before Durin’s Day.”

Dori interrupts the discussion. “Stuff’s happening again.”

* * *

The rain. The blasted _rain_.

The rain that had never ended. What was it - a week? a fortnight? of rain. Just rain and mud and cold. Bilbo had been so very miserable during those days, as had all of the Company.

_“Here, Mister Gandalf, can’t you do something about this deluge?”_

_"It is raining, Master Dwarf, and it will continue to rain until_  
_the rain is done. If you want to change the weather, you need to_  
_find yourself another Wizard!"_  Gandalf says, somehow looking drier than the rest of them.  
Maybe the wide brim of his pointy hat protected him.

_"Are there any?”_ the Hobbit ask.  _"Other Wizards?"_

(The Hobbit looks a bit like a drowned kitten according to Bofur - he gets a handful of popped corn thrown at his head for that.)

_"Well, there are five of us. Saruman the White, the head of our order;  
then there are the Blue Wizards - hmm, I have quite forgotten their names ..."_

There's a snort and Nori (he'd been too far back down the line of ponies to have heard the conversation take place the first time) remarks: "Memory gettin' dodgy, huh?"

Gandalf does _not_ look amused, but he deserves it, Bilbo thinks, after everything the Wizard has had them go through without telling them the full truth, constantly bending it in his own favour.

_"Then there is Radagast the Brown."_

_"Is he a great Wizard, or is he more like you?"_

At this all the Dwarves openly laugh. "Oh, oh, hear!" Fíli reaches around and pats Bilbo's back. "Right to his face, too!"

Bilbo splutters.

“You’re showing to be braver and full of more surprises every day,” Balin comments, a bushy eyebrow raised.

“Uh, thanks. (I think?),” the Hobbit answers.

_“I think he’s a very great Wizard, in his own way. He’s a gentle soul, who prefers_  
_the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forest lands to the East –_  
_and a good thing too. For always evil will look to find a foothold in this world.”_

* * *

_"Not good!"_

Bilbo stares aghast at the dead animals, the sickly-looking trees and rotting mushrooms that the Brown Wizard was examining, rushing to and fro in a panic. The forest which at first glance appeared green and growing is proving to be very different: something's very wrong. Even though the grass looks green and the moss full, there are bodies of foxes and rabbits and other small wildlife strewn about as if they've been struck by death too suddenly to even crawl from where they fell. No sickness that Bilbo knows of can do that, and there is no trace of wounds or blood on any of the animals. The forest also seems suspiciously quiet, with far too little birdsong to be heard. Yes, something has to be wrong.

_“Not good, not good at all!"_

"The water must be afoul with something...or the soil..." Bilbo muses aloud. Even with the yellow sun shining through the canopy, the forest appears to be ill or dying. It isn't _natural_. "Gandalf, what do you think?"

"I think you may be right, Bilbo. Something is definitely wrong with the Greenwood - more commonly known as Mirkwood nowadays - as Radagast came to warn me, before we arrived at Rivendell."

"So you _know_ something," Bilbo realizes, looking at the Wizard suspiciously. "What did he tell you?"

"...I'm certain everything will come to light in due time."

Well, that sounded ominous if anything.

"I am growing tired of these subterfuges and lies, Wizard," Thorin mutters, throwing Gandalf a dark glare, obviously overhearing the Hobbit and Wizard's conversation. "When will we be told all the things that you have kept from us?"

Nori leans closer to Glóin, whispering: "Three gold coins on Thorin pummeling the Wizard before the next hour is up."

The red-bearded Dwarf grins, sounding confident. "I say Thorin as well, but within two hours. Three gold coins."

"That's a deal!" They shake hands.

Not having helped overhearing them, Bilbo glances at the pair doubtfully. Is it really that clever to make bets on who and when will actually attempt to hit Gandalf? The Big Man is after all a Wizard, not just anyone, and Bilbo honestly doesn't want to see the Wizard angry with any of them. Who knows what could happen then? Someone could get turned into something ... unnatural. But, on the other hand ... 

"You know, it's stupid to make bets when the subjects in turn can hear you," Dori says loudly.

Thorin rolls his eyes, but Dwalin reverently strokes his knuckledusters with a kind of dangerous smile on his face. "I'm on it. One hour."

Between a few bites of popcorn Ori says, "Mahal's beard, you're all forty-year-olds." before continuing to munch away. Bilbo has a sneaking suspicion that somehow all of the Dwarves are in on this bet, like some sort of secret pact. (He also has a sneaking suspicion that one or more of the Company are soon about to become much richer.)

_"Oh no - Sebastian!"_

The Brown Wizard leans down to pick something up from where it lies curled up on the ground - a small hedgehog, it looks like. It would be amazingly adorable if it wasn't for the fact that the tiny thing looks like to be dying too, and Bilbo makes an upset noise at the back of his throat. What they're seeing isn't the natural cycle of life and death that always happens in the wild; this is some swift decay, and just too cruel.

"Oh no!" cries Ori, now out of popcorn. "That's just too sad."

Then Radagast starts running again.

* * *

"Look at that shack, not a straight angle to be seen, and it's all falling apart! What poor workmanship," one of the Dwarves remarks when Radagast's hut comes into view. It looks like it's been grown more than built, weaving around one or two large trees. Almost like the small home is a part of the forest itself, put together with care not to cause damage to the earth. And as the Wizard flies into the building, it almost looks like he's being followed by some kind of shadows.

In frenzy the Wizard clears a table and puts the little animal down to examine it, muttering to himself all the while; but nothing seems to help. He tries remedies and concoctions of all kinds, that for all their strangeness don't seem all that magical or Wizard-like; there's an apothecary in every Shire village or town with enough knowledge to create medicines similar to that. With each second passing the Wizard's frantic pace quickens.

"Figure it out!" Kíli shouts at the magic wall with odd reverence. "You gotta save the little hedgehog!"

With a shout in Khuzdul Bifur apparently agrees with him.

_“I don’t understand why it’s not working! It’s not as if it’s witchcraft.”_

Then: a revelation.

_"Witchcraft ... Oh, but it_ is. _A dark and powerful magic.”_

"Finally," says Dwalin, to Bilbo's surprise. He hadn't expected the hardened warrior to care that much for a little hedgehog. "Slow for a Wizard."

From hidden in a crevice in the roof the Wizard pulls out this glass vial - or it may be a crystal, they can't be sure - and his voice dips low, and he seems to sink into a strange trance. This is getting stranger by the minute. But he definately seems more like a Wizard now, though very different from Gandalf to be certain.

Bilbo can’t recognize the words; it sounds like some form of old elfish, something he hasn’t learned. And to all of their shock, darkness – not a liquid or a smoke; but actual, tangible  _darkness_  – slips out of the animal and into the bottle. A gloom falls over the shack; and dark things move outside it, rattling the wood, casting eerie shadows onto the walls.

_“ **Sí a hlare ómaquettar**_  
_**lerya laman naiquentallo** _  
_**na coilerya en-vinyanta.** ”_

As the Wizard is speaking, voice dropping an octave (or two), the shadows are climbing closer. Something is blocking the windows. Something - _somethings_ \- are crawling around outside, making this creepy, scratching noise. Some kind of animal or creature. And they're getting closer, something piercing the roof -

A pale Ori is holding onto his chair for dear life. "Oh Mahal, they're gonna die. Poor thing."

"No, they're not, idiot," Nori retorts dryly. "We met the Wizard after this, so clearly he made it out alive."

"Not him, the hedgehog!"

"Oh. Right."

"He's too cute to die!" Ori wails.

But then: the spell is broken, complete, the Wizard leaving his trance. And the animal stirs, opening its eyes again – cured!

“Impossible!” That would be Dori, who's very upset (as usual) at such displays of things breaking the laws of nature. “Unnatural magic!”

“Neat,” says Nori.

Dwalin huffs. “Well, barmy as he is he’s still a Wizard.”

“Those shapes … they looked a lot like giant spiders or something, didn’t they?” Fíli mutters. “ _Huge_ spiders. Like the stuff of nightmares.”

Kíli nods in agreement with his brother. “Creepy as fuck.”

“Kíli, language!” Thorin barks, more on automatic than anything else (he is after all the boy’s uncle, and has to watch them now that their mother isn’t here to do so. Manners are very important – they _are_ the heirs of Durin).

“Yes,” says Bofur. “Definitely not natural.”

“Don’t you mean to say ‘supernatural’?” Bombur frowns at his brother.

A shrug. “Same thing.”

“Shh! I want to hear what they’re saying!”

“Ah. Sorry, Ori.”

* * *

The Wizard has exited the hut now, and the forest seems lighter, like he's lifted the spell on not just the hedgehog but on the nearby area - at least for now. Several odd shapes - _definitely_ looking like large spiders - are slithering away through the underbrush and out of sight.

_“Where on this good earth did those foul creatures come from?”_

A bird flies down just then, chirping - and apparently the Brown Wizard can talk bird. Well, that's good to know. 

_“The old fortress? Show me.”_

Fíli peers at the screen, "Has he got the sled? Yeah, he's got the sled."

"It's oddly efficient for its design. It's a _horrible_ design, by the way," Glóin says with clear expertise like suddenly he's an engineer and not a Master of Coin. "The drag must be awful. No wonder he needs that many rabbits for it."

Bombur nods in agreement. He may be a cook, but he's not an idiot. "He shouldn't need rabbits for it at all. Whoever's heard of a sled drawn by _rabbits_ before? Ever? Why isn't he using horses or goats or oxen? Or something _else_  that's bigger?"

"Rhosgobel rabbits are very strong for their size," Gandalf says, like he's heard similar arguments before. Maybe he has. Maybe he's the one who first questioned the rabbits, and thus got lectured by his fellow Brown Wizard on why and how Rhosgobel rabbits are the perfect race to drive his sled. (Radagast must be very passionate about them.)

Off the Wizard goes, anyway, at a rather amazing speed. It's a wonder he doesn't crash into any trees, Bilbo thinks, or is thrown off. Soon he's left the immediate area near his hut, and already the forest looks darker here, almost like the Wizard's power has somehow protected a portion of the forest but not all of it. Now there's definite evidence of spiders: huge webs, several meters in span, are covering the treetops, blocking much of the light.

"Yikes!" Bofur comments. "I wouldn't want to be stuck in that mess. That must mean the spiders that made those are at _least_ five feet in length..."

"Mahal's hammer, don't say anything more!" pleads Dori. "I'm going to have nightmares. And we all know what happens when I have nightmares."

It doesn't take long before they reach something that's not forest: a huge castle ruin. It must be the old fortress Radagast had been told about by the bird. There's a shadow around the whole place, like it's sucking light from its surroundings, like it's _tainted._  It gives Bilbo the shivers just to look at - and think Radagast went there _willingly!_

"Okay ... Not natural," Fíli says. "That's a large castle. It might have been a city once, even. I don't recognize it, though. Can't remember that from the history lessons ..."

"You wouldn't," Balin says. "No one of our kind has been there willingly. That is Dol Guldur, the old fortress of the enemy. It was destroyed and abandoned long ago - or at least so we've believed. I do not think Men or Elves ever venture near that place either."

"Do you think there are ghosts there?" Kíli whispers to his brother, only to be shushed by Dori.

"I said _stop it!_ Now I'm going to have _more_ nightmares."

But the images change before they can find out what the Wizard is going to do - or has done - at the old fortress. Bifur mutters something angrily in Khuzdul, his brother Bombur quietly agreeing with him.

"That can't mean anything good ..."

* * *

_“We’ll make camp here for the night.”_

“Hey, I remember that place. Isn’t that where …? Oh _no.”_ Bombur groans.

“Don’t do it! Don’t do it! Move on!” shouts Fíli at the screen but alas the Dwarves on the magic wall doesn’t hear him, and are now sliding off their ponies and stretching their legs in relief, completely unaware of the dangers ahead. “Don’t stay there - damn it!”

"Fíli, I don't think they - ehm, we - can hear you. Nice try, though."

"LEAVE THAT PLACE!"

_"Fíli, Kíli, look after the ponies. Make sure_  
_you stay with them. Óin, Glóin, get a fire going."_

As Thorin is directing his Company with orders, Gandalf examines the broken farmhouse. At the time no one else had heard or paid heed to his observations of the house's previous occupants; with what they know now, it's obvious that the farmer and his family were all taken by the trolls earlier, and their homestead destroyed and plundered by the foul creatures. The signs had been right in front of their noses, and they'd missed them.

_“I think it would be better if we moved on.  
We could make for the Hidden Valley."_

“For once the Wizard was right. Oh, damn.”

“Did you know, Gandalf?” Bilbo asks, turning to the Big Man next to him. “Did you know about the trolls?”

“Not exactly. I had a slightly foreboding feeling, but no, my dear Bilbo, I didn’t know about the trolls, especially about them being so close. We were not very far from the borders of Rivendell at that point and we all, including myself, believed the dangers to lie on the other side of the Misty Mountains, not behind them. However I was concerned that we could be – as we were – being followed by orcs and other foul spies in the service of darkness. I wished us to hurry.”

“I am regretful now,” Thorin says quietly, the admission slightly uncharacteristic. A big leap forward for him, Bilbo thinks, to admit humility. “But at the time I sensed no danger and we were tired, in need of rest. I thought it better to press on the next morning and bypass Rivendell altogether, and find some other means to read the map than having to ask the Elves for aid.”

“The lesser of two evils, huh,” Dwalin says. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Only, we didn’t know about there being another evil at all. Oh, we were foolish and reckless, looking ahead without caring for the dangers closer at hand.”

“What’s done is done, Thorin,” Bilbo tries soothing him. Poor Thorin must be very tense at this point, and really should need a nice cup of tea. The Hobbit peers toward the table full of food in search for a pot and a big cup. Tea always helps. “Besides we’ve made it this far. No need to worry about it now.”

No wonder Dwarves had a hard time of it, clinging to the past like this all of the time. The only past most Hobbits care about is that concerning family trees. (That can be ... important, and also lead to both conflicts and pride. But that's for another tale and time.)

"Yes. It's easy to have regrets afterward. Now, we can learn new things and maybe alter whatever terrible future that has been foreseen," Balin says wisely. "That must be our purpose here." 

_“I have told you already, I will not go near that place.”_

_“Why not? The Elves could help us. We could get food, rest, advice.”_

_“I do not_ need _their advice.”_

_“We have a map that we cannot read. Lord Elrond could help us.”_

"Wait, that was old Khuzdul right, the writing hidden on the map?"

"Yes," Thorin answers, not really following.

"So couldn't Bifur read it?"

It's kind of nice to be feel that clever sometimes and be acknowledged for it, Bilbo thinks, when the Dwarves all stare at him in surprise.

"That's right," Bofur says. "So we didn't need to go to Rivendell after all!"

"We'd still need the moonlight to reveal the runes," Óin puts in; even if Balin, Thorin and Bilbo had been the only ones present, along with Gandalf, when Elrond read the runes, the others had been told what happened, and the words.

Bilbo nods, comprehending the Dwarf's logic. "Yes, but they would've appeared that night anyway wouldn't they? With or without Lord Elrond's large crystal, moonlight-magnifying...thing - wouldn't they? Lord Elrond said the runes could only be read on the same day and time on which they had been written, under the light of a moon of the same phase and shape. That's a lot of things to consider, true, but every now and then the time would be right."

With a humming noise Balin answers, "Possibly, yes. We cannot know now. We were indeed lucky to be able to read them that night. Having to wait another year, or more, would have been ... troublesome."

_“Help? A Dragon attacks Erebor – what help came from the Elves?_  
_Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls – the Elves looked on_  
_and did nothing. And you ask me to seek out the very people who_  
_betrayed my grandfather, who betrayed my father.”_

All right, time to hand Thorin that cup of tea. Bilbo eases out of his chair and walks over to the nearby table, quickly pouring a cup of a nice-smelling green tea from one of the multiple pots waiting there. Taking another bowl of popped corn in one hand and a cup in the other, he walks back. Thorin casts him a surprised and slgthly confused look.

"It helps, trust me," Bilbo murmurs and slightly doubtfully Thorin takes the cup,taking a careful sip.

"It's...not too bad."

"There, see."

"No, wait," hisses Dwalin, "if you get him too calmed down I'm gonna lose my money on that bet!"

_“You are neither of them. I did not give you that map and key for you to hold onto the past.”_

_“I did not know that they were yours to keep!”_

Without answering Gandalf turns and walks away, huffing with anger. Thorin glares after him, making sure the Wizard disappears as quickly as possible. Meanwhile Balin and Bilbo are near one of the ponies, unloading the gear.

_“Everything all right?"_ Bilbo asks, concerned. _  
"Gandalf, where are you going?”_

_“To seek the company of the only one around who’s got any sense.”_

_“And who’s that?”_

“Myself, _Mister Baggins! I’ve had enough of Dwarves for one day.”_

"How rude," Glóin notes. "The rest of us had no particular quarrel with him."

"'Had'?"

"At that point in time. Now ..." The red-head gestures with his left hand toward the Wizard, then at the rest of the Company like trying to convey something without words. "Definite, well-justified tension."

_“Come on, Bombur, we’re hungry.”_

Worriedly Bilbo turns to Balin, as if the wise old Dwarf is a grandfather with all the answers to any questions in the universe. Which is sort of how Bilbo views him, come think of it. Balin always has been the most sensible one of the bunch.

_“Is he coming back?”_

"Well, thank Mahal he _did,_ or we'd become Dwarf soup for the trolls," Nori says. "And wouldn't that be a crack ending to this show."

"That's what saving you, Wizard, from having me cleave your pointy hat in two because of your lies to me and this Company, especially concerning Bilbo," Thorin says, a threat or a reminder Bilbo can't tell. Anyway, it's somewhat frightening to know that Thorin can go from dark and brooding, to pleasant and smiling, to dangerous and armed in just a few seconds. He has a point though in being angry with the Wizard. Gandalf has lied to them all in different ways, to pull the strings he wanted (or needed) to in the grand scheme of things. A grand scheme they really need to be told more about. "No Dwarf takes lightly to such things. But you saved our lives - thanks to Bilbo's stalling of the trolls."

Gandalf huffs around his pipe, not overly concerned with the threat (even if he is quite fond of his hat).

"Thorin, would you _please_ stop glaring at him?" Bilbo asks, wondering if Thorin should need to move further down the row of chairs to be away from the Wizard. Or to get the Wizard out of Thorin's range. So the tea only helped so much - a glance tells him that Thorin has already finished the rather large cup. "If you're going to cut off his hat, I don't want to be sitting between you."

"I'd cut off _more_ than his hat," mutters Dwalin darkly.

Even Bifur is joining in, making a gesture that Bilbo suspects might be a rude. " **Nê ikrid ûdar**!"

"Oi! Where are you manners, people?" Dori says, poking - actually _poking_ \- the big Dwarf's bicep. "No threatening of bodily harm while we're having this, this moh-vee experience."

"After, then?"

"And what about the bets, huh?" Nori adds. Right, he'll probably be the one gaining the most coin if Thorin breaks his composure completely within about half an hour. (The majority of the Dwarves had voted on it be taking at least two hours, because Thorin is _really_ stubborn, and such pig-headedness can slow down the explosion, only to create a larger force once it blows.)

"Master Dwalin," Gandalf says, putting down his pipe. "I assure you that for whatever reason I have made you all upset, I was doing it for the benefit and better for everyone involved."

"So you lied because apparently that would help us?" Bofur says, frowning. "That doesn't make a lick of sense."

Maybe this was why they were taken here without their weapons. Oh Yavanna, Bilbo thinks, he's locked in a room with thirteen upset, angry Dwarves and a Wizard who refuses to acknowledge that they're upset with him, and he's the Hobbit stuck in the middle.

"Would you stop acting like children, all of you?" Ori says tiredly. He's the only one who hasn't placed a bet, beside Bilbo and Thorin himself.

However not everyone - or anyone - is listening. Dwalin cracks his fists, his whole upper body tensing in preparation of a fight, biceps swelling. "I say we pummel the Wizard now!"

Bilbo groans and hides his face in his hands. Great. Just great.

"No pummeling shall be necessary, Master Dwarf," Gandalf says calmly, like this is not at all the first time someone's been angry with him and threatened to harm more than just his hat. In fact, it probably _isn't._ "You needed a Hobbit for this Quest, and a Hobbit I got you. The circumstances may not have been optimal from your standpoint, but I could find no other way. In fact, had I come to Bilbo earlier and presented the scenario, I am quite afraid that he would have called it madness and driven me out of Bag End and never met any of you. And it all has worked out now, has it not?"

Bilbo sighs. In a sort of way, if you ignore like fifty percent of all logic in the world, the Wizard is right. He's just thinking on a much bigger scale than anyone else present, including himself. And the Wizard is right about the fact that if he'd been told about the Quest, the Company and the Dragon over a cup of tea in his garden two weeks before the Dwarves' unexpected arrival, then he quite frankly would've laughed hysterically in Gandalf's face before _definitely_ saying no. Well, he _did_ say no. And Gandalf didn't listen. So would it really have mattered in what way he was introduced to the Quest and the Dwarves and Gandalf's strange idea of having a Hobbit on the journey?

All right, the Dwarves officially have his approval of pummeling the Wizard. (Mildly. Angry with him or not, they might need the Wizard and his magic to help them out further on the journey.)

"What are you thinking, Bilbo?" Thorin asks, noticing the Hobbit's expression.

"Well, I was just agreeing with Dori here. We should act civilized until this thing is over and we're back at Beorn's house."

Thorin catches his eye, and after a moment understanding dawns; they share a brief knowledgeable smile, a nod. "Oh. Yes, of course. Dwalin, at ease."

Eventually everyone settles down again, though the tension in the room remains higher than before. Dori breathes a huge sigh of relief. "Thank goodness that's over. I was afraid I was going to have to clean up a big mess, just like after that disastrous Durin's Day in '22."

At that, Nori draws himself up from his chair. "Hey, I wasn't _that_ drunk! And how was I supposed to know that that guy was the third son of some minor Lord from the Iron Hills on an official visit and that it was bad business trying pickpocket him?"

"I had to bail you from jail! I lost a fortune - and my favourite teacup - _and_ I had to hold back Mister Dwalin to save your sorry hide!" Once he's started ranting it seems almost impossible to stop him, and Dori's face is all red and his breathing quick and harsh, and Nori has started shrinking in on himself a little. Everyone, even Thorin, is wincing and not-so-subtly trying to act like everything is normal and that they're not listening to every single word being shouted. "...Do you know how old and _valuable_ that teacup was? Now what do I do with an uneven set?!"

Curious, Bilbo clears his throat to catch Ori's attention. "Do I want to know?"

(In the background Dori is still shouting at Nori, and Nori is trying to escape from the chair and sink through the ground but unfortunately it's made of wood not quicksand, and Thorin is trying to start small talk with Dwalin and Balin in order to direct attention away from the two brothers.)

The young Dwarf shakes his head reverently. "No. No no no. Don't want to set Dori off any worse."

If Nori weren't a Dwarf, Bilbo would say that he had to be a Took. One of the worst ones, probably. (Grandmother Adamanta would _adore_ him.)

A little helplessly Nori abruptly bolts out of his chair and rushes over to the food table, grabs a pot and a huge cup before turning back to his brother with wide, pleading eyes. "Tea?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wordlist**  
>  **(Khuzdul)**  
>  **Du-bekâr!** To arms!  
>  **Nê ikrid ûdar** Never trust a wizard [(Source.)](http://midgardsmal.com/continuing-dwarvish/)
> 
> **(Quenya)**  
>  **Sí a hlare ómaquettar** Now hear words of my voice  
>  **Lerya laman naiquentallo** Free (the) animal from curse  
>  **Na coilerya en-vinyanta** Be its life renewed
> 
> **Additional notes**  
>  In the movies we get to know four of the ponies' names: Myrtle, Minty, Bungo and Daisy. I've seen various fanons regarding the ponies and of course made headcanons of my own. So all the ponies are here named by Bilbo after different family members (except a few). (Gandalf has a horse which I figure has a name, but one that Bilbo didn't come up with or knows.)  
> So the ponies in this fic and their Dwarves are:  
> 1\. _Myrtle_ (canon) - This is a canon name and not a Hobbit name, as far as I could tell. Bilbo's pony. Originally just a pack-pony/the extra pony that the Dwarves brought with them.  
>  2\. _Minty_ (canon) - Dori's pony.  
>  3\. _Bungo_ (canon) - Named after [Bungo Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Bungo_Baggins), Bilbo's father. Thorin's pony.  
>  4\. _Daisy_ (canon) - Dwalin's pony. In moviecanon I think they _could_ have named the pony after [Daisy Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Daisy_Baggins) (married to Griffo Boffin), Frodo's cousin; however as she's not been born at the time of Bilbo's journey, I figure the pony is just named after the flower itself, and any relation to any canon character is merely coincidental.  
>  5\. _Pansy_ \- Kíli's pony, named after [Pansy Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Pansy_Baggins), the brother of Mungo, Bilbo's grandfather.  
>  6\. _Mungo_ \- Named after [Mungo Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Mungo_Baggins), Bilbo's paternal grandfather. Óin's pony.  
>  7\. _Bingo_ \- Bombur's pony, named after [Bingo Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Bingo_Baggins), Bilbo's uncle.  
>  8\. _Drogo_ \- Balin's pony. Named after [Drogo Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Drogo_Baggins), who marries [Primula Brandybuck](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Primula_Brandybuck) and in the future have a son who we all know, Frodo.  
>  9\. _Rosa_ \- Named after [Rosa Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Rosa_Baggins), who is related to Bilbo by her father Ponto being a brother of Mungo, Bilbo's grandfather. (Dunno if that relation has a designation...?) Nori's pony.  
>  10\. _Polo_ \- Named after [Polo Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Polo_Baggins), Rosa's husband. So an in-law of Bilbo's family. Fíli's pony.  
>  11\. _Fosco_ \- Named after [Fosco Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Fosco_Baggins), who is related to Bilbo the same way as Rosa: his father Largo is the brother of Mungo, Bilbo's grandfather. Glóin's pony.  
>  12\. _Bella_ \- Ori's pony. I imagine she could be named after either Bilbo's mother, [Belladonna](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Belladonna_Took) or his aunt [Mirabella Took](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Mirabella_Took). Probably Belladonna.  
>  13\. _Lily_ \- Bifur's pony. Named after Mungo's sister [Lily Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Lily_Baggins) (she marries Togo Goodbody and gains his family name).  
>  14\. _Ponto_ \- Bofur's pony. Named after Mungo's brother [Ponto Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Ponto_Baggins).  
>  Family trees source: [here](http://lotrproject.com/).  
> [Phoenixdaisy explains distant cousins here.](http://archiveofourown.org/comments/37279137) (Untangling those distant relations.)


	5. Tom, Bert, and William's Not So Good, Very Bad Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Thank you everyone for the amazing response and support I've been given for this fic! You are all incredible!!_  
>    _Apologizes about the delay. I've just begun studying a university course in English, and had my first seminar the 31st so I've been rather busy. Since I've never studied language (or anything) at university before I don't think I was quite prepared for the - intensity? - of it. (and the sheer amount of money spent thus far on literature...) Anyway, it's fun and exciting but difficult, so I don't know how much time I will be able to spend on writing fic in the near the future._  
>  _This chapter was originally number four, and I was going to squeeze in everything in the previous chapter into this, as well as the whole troll incident. I realized after a couple of thousand words that it just couldn't be done and decided to split it in half (which was lucky because this chapter alone turned out to be 7.7k words). I spent quite some time working out how to write this scene. It's also the first major action sequence featuring the Company, and I had no idea how to write action scenes into this fic ... The last chapter mentioning Azanulbizar was as brief and vague as possible, containing only the most important details. The troll fight is much more chaotic and longer so I decided to skim over it quickly. It's not what's the most important. Well, hope it's OK anyway. Please enjoy!_

**Chapter 5:**

# Tom, Bert, and William's Not So Good, Very Bad Day

 **wherein there are wizards and trolls, a wizard who trolls,**  
**thirteen displeased dwarves and a hobbit who considers**  
**the chances of successfully suing said dwarves**  
**(this was not in his contract, damnit)**

* * *

_“He’s been a long time.”_

It’s a quite worried and unsettled Bilbo who is saying this, while the rest of the Company are gathered around a fire. The Dwarves, except Fíli and Kíli who are some way off watching the ponies, are enjoying (or at least eating) the stew that Bombur earlier had made, sitting placed in groups or standing nearby keeping watch or sharing conversations with each other. None other than the Hobbit seems nervous or concerned in any way. Night has settled now, and crickets are singing in the distance. Bofur, who’s just poured a healthy amount of stew into a bowl, turns to Bilbo with a confused frown.

_“Who?”_

_“Gandalf.”_

_“He’s a Wizard - he does as he chooses._  
_Here, do us a favour and take this to the lads.”  
_ The Dwarf hands the Hobbit two bowls.

(Fíli is already squirming in his chair uncomfortably, ashamed, knowing _exactly_ what’s going to happen. It was bad enough when Thorin yelled at him and Kíli the _first_ time. Who knows what the Dwarf will do now that they're probably going to see the Hobbit’s side of the story?)

As the Hobbit wanders down the hill toward the clearing where Fíli and Kíli are, they see in the background Bombur being berated by Bofur for trying to take seconds. Bombur must be the only Dwarf in history to actually _like_  the sort of watery, thin stew that’s always being rationed during long wearisome journeys.

_“Stop it, you’ve had plenty.”_

_“Aye,”_ echoes the faint voice of Glóin, though  
they can't see him or any of the Dwarves any longer. _  
“It’s not a bad stew, Bombur. I’ve had worse.”_

 _“Dori could’ve cooked it,”_ Nori laughs.

 _“Hilarious,”_ is the disgruntled answer from said Dwarf.

"I don’t see why you could not have picked someone else to taunt," mutters Dori, crossing his arms. “I hate you all.”

In a supportive gesture Ori hands his brother his bowl of popped corn to share. “ _I’d_ never pick on you, brother.”

* * *

The Hobbit has left the camp out of sight now; there are several ponies lingering about, lazily eating grass or resting as ponies do after a long day's walk. And there are Fíli and Kíli, standing with their back to the nearing Hobbit, staring out at the clearing in concentration. The frowns on their faces don't bode well at all. 

“Uh uh,” murmurs Kíli, glancing at Thorin, who doesn't look amused.

 _“What’s the matter?”_  Bilbo asks, noticing  
the brothers' matching expressions.

 _“We’re supposed to be looking after the ponies,”_ says Kíli.

 _“Only, we’ve encountered a slight problem,”_ continues Fíli.

_“We had sixteen.”_

_“Now there’s fourteen.”_

“One could think you’re twins, the way you keep doing that,” remarks Bilbo, only to gain some very odd looks from the Dwarves. Oh no, he probably just insulted someone in a roundabout Dwarven manner that no Hobbit would know anything about. Or something. That's highly possible, actually. While Hobbits can be insulted if someone eats too little or simply take their meals in the wrong order, who knows all the things that can upset Dwarves? Maybe he just uttered what is some kind of expression for them that could be translated to Khzudul to mean something very bad. _Uh oh._

“What?” He's ready to add, ‘If I insulted anybody I didn't meant it’; however he doesn't have to.

Bofur wrinkles his nose, thinking. “What’s that - ‘twins’?”

The Hobbit can only gape in turn. “You ... you don’t know what twins are?”

“Well, I understand the concept,” Balin says. “The word could be used in connotation of explaining two items of the same likeness. Sometimes we designate gems and crystal in such a manner, if we find two to be of equal value and beauty, and mined at the same time. We don’t have a proper word in our tongue for it, though.”

“Yes, that’s, that’s one way to describe it, I guess,” Bilbo says slowly, not really understanding how all of the Dwarves, even the oldest ones, don’t even seem to have heard of twins. Maybe ... Well, the Dwarves are long lived, but from what Bilbo can understand they’re not that great in number; maybe they have some issues of their numbers that run deeper than they know. For a Hobbit such a thing is just so strange that it's unimaginable, just unthinkable. “Twins are two children born at the same time by the same mother, borne in the same womb.”

“How is that even possible?!” exclaims Óin, nearly wringing his neck by the way he swiftly swings around to stare at the Hobbit in shock. And he's meant to be a healer, sensible about these things, so it throws the Hobbit off a little. 

“You really don't know?” Bilbo glances at them all a bit suspiciously, to make sure they’re not trying to fool him or play games. But the utter bewilderment on each of their faces is entirely genuine. “You really _don’t know_."

“Bilbo,” Thorin says very seriously, “for a Dwarf to have a single child within their lifetime, much less two, is a great a achievement. We are slow to love, and slower to find our One and to marry, and some never marry at all but devote their lives to their crafts. And marriage is no guarantee of having children. Dwarves are strong but alas not abundant.”

“Oh. Oh, I suppose ... that makes sense. Just, not for a Hobbit.”

Bilbo knows he's been considered odd, strange, outlandish or just terribly stubborn to remain a bachelor this long. Such a thing is rare for Hobbits, though it does happen from time to time. His own cousins have blamed Bilbo’s ways on all sorts of things; from his Tookish blood, to maybe the fact there’s rumoured faerie blood in the Fallohide line, to the possibility of having too few meals a day or maybe that he’s eaten he wrong kinds of mushroom. (Their ideas are getting more and more ridiculous every year, and Bilbo would _very much_ like to stop receiving letters from Fortinbras asking if he's found himself a lass or lad yet. He's a grownup, he can take care of himself! He doesn't need his bloody cousin to poke his nose in every business that isn’t his own!).

“We’re not like Dwarves at all in that regard. Most get married well before their 40th birthday; in fact it’s considered rather ... _scandalous_ not to be wedded at all. Some parents make sure things are arranged, if their child can’t find a sweetheart on their own.”

“Really?” Dori asks, frowning. “How peculiar.”

“Then what about you, Bilbo?" asks Ori curiously. “I mean, you’re not married, are you?”

At that, Thorin shoots the Hobbit a quick, sharp look (and must be getting an awful crick in the neck because of it).

“Well, that’s true,” answers Bilbo, wondering where this is going and _why_ are they constantly getting off-track, deviating from watching the moh-vee? Honestly, Dwarves are downright bizarre sometimes. “That’s one of the reasons the rest of Hobbiton has long consider me a little odd. I guess that won’t help once word gets out what I’m up to now - on adventures! Not that they’re not trying to, of course.”

“How so?"

Not unable to hide his irritation at just thinking about it, Bilbo explains, “For the last few years I’ve been getting letters from my cousin Fortinbras wondering whenever I'll, uhm, settle down. Lately he’s started including lists. _Lists!_ of _names! -_  and addresses so that I could begin corresponding.”

Dwalin winces on his behalf, and Dori says, "Well, that seems rather rude.”

“I’ve tried telling him that, but I know he’s just a bit concerned, see, and that’s his way of showing it.”

Quietly to himself Thorin considers writing a letter of his own to this Fortinbras. A relation of Bilbo’s or not, a line must be drawn. The thought of trying to press marriage onto _anyone_ is an alien thought for a Dwarf.

“Back to the twin-thing,” says Bofur, steering them back to the original subject; “Do you mean that they actually happen in the Shire? For real?”

“Well of course! It’d be a bit unpractical otherwise, I think,” Bilbo answers, relieved to be back in safer territory. “Twins and triplets and all sorts; I mean just last year Lily Brownlock had quadruples -”

There’s a simultaneous, loud intake of breath. “Qu _-quadruples?!”_

“They’re quite adorable when they're not screaming or crying,” Bilbo says, remembering visiting on that lovely garden tea party on the little ones’ Naming Day. The host had served some really lovely sponge-cake and even been kind enough to share the recipe. Quite a thing, that; the sharing of recipes between Hobbits can either be a very friendly affair, or the source of decade-long conflicts ending in bad places.

“So do have any twins in your family?” asks Kíli curiously.

“My mother and Aunt Donnamira were. Grandmother Adamanta was rather glad about that,” he says smiling fondly. “That they’re only twins I mean. The healer first announced that she was going to have triplets, and she was nearly _mighty_ upset with Grandfather then, considering they were their ninth and tenth child.”

“Oh my,” gasps Balin. “Ten children?”

In the background Bofur is choking on his popcorn, and Bifur is patting his back to help, and Thorin looks like he's ceased breathing for a moment, echoing, “ _Triplets.”_

“Yes. They stopped at twelve. I think they were tired of having to extend the smial all the time.”

_“Twelve!?”_

Better not tell them about Gregor and Isabella Brandybuck’s family - 'the Big Brandybucks’ as they're commonly called - then, Bilbo decides. The Dwarves would hit the roof quite literally if they were told of the family’s twenty faunts (although to be fair about four people had been involved in total so it could be considered cheating). 

Trying to soothe the nerves of the Dwarves by letting them focus on something else, the Hobbit tries direction their attention back to the magic wall. Again it seems to have paused briefly to allow them to talk. “I think we’re missing a lot of the 'moh-vee' by having this discussion.”

One by one they stop staring at him in shock, thought Dori mutters on his breath, “That’s it! Hobbits must be magic!”

( _Yavanna,_ Bilbo thinks. _They’re starting to make me want to hit their heads again. Bless._ )

* * *

On the magic wall, Kíli and Fíli have just finishing walking around the makeshift paddock, doing a headcount of the ponies.

_“Daisy and Bungo are missing.”_

_“Well, that’s not good," Bilbo says_  
letting out a nervous laugh.  _“That is not_  
_good at all! Shouldn’t we tell Thorin?”_

“Oh, why didn’t you listen to him, idiots?” cries Nori.

“Shaddup!” Kíli tries defending himself and his brother. “What would you’ve done, then, clever-head?”

“Gotten backup, not tried taking on three huge trolls on my own. I’m a thief, not an idiot.”

 _“Uh, no. Let’s not worry him,”_ says Fíli. _“As our official  
Burglar, we thought_ you _might like to look into it.”_

_“Well, uh ... Look, something big uprooted these trees.”_

_“That was our thinking.”_

_“It’s something very big, and possibly quite dangerous.”_

“I don’t want to watch this stupidity,” Dwalin declares grumpily. “You lads almost got yourselves and our Hobbit killed with your little stunt.”

“We’ve already apologized for that!”

"Yes, but you never told us _all_ that transpired, in _detail_ ," says Thorin, keeping a watchful eye on his nephews as well as the magic wall. (It’s a wonder he’s not becoming skew-eyed). "As in how exactly the ponies were lost, or how come Bilbo ended up in the troll camp, or why Fíli was the one to alert us of their presence _on his own_ far too late."

"Uhmm ... yes ... that’s true ..."

They squirm a little in their chairs.

"Fíli," whispers Kíli, loud enough for everyone else to hear his words too, "if Uncle tries to kill us, will you save me?"

"Don't be ridiculous, he won’t do that." When his brother doesn't seem convinced, Fíli adds: "Just think of how Amad would react."

_“Hey, there’s a light! Over here!”_

"Oh no," says Ori, gesturing wide with his pen and inkpot like it could catch the attention of the Dwarves and Hobbit on the wall. "Don’t follow it, it’s fucking stupid!"

This causes Bofur to splutter in surprise, and he looks in confusion at the nearest Dwarf for confirmation, to check he's not just hearing things. "Did ... did _Ori_ just say a bad word? Ori? Little Ori?"

"I think he did ..."

"Oi, don't call me 'little’, that’s rude!"

 _Finally_ _someone who understands_ , Bilbo thinks, remembering how often it’s been implied that he's young and tiny and frail and generally someone needing patronizing and protecting. Though the Dwarves have mostly ceased doing that now, and it'd never been as bad as Beorn referring to him as 'little bunny’.

Of course, instead of listening to Ori’s infuriated pleads, the odd three are sneaking closer to the firelight, past a thick fallen log, further away from the Dwarves' camp - and the remaining ponies they were _supposed_ to be watching. And now that they're closer they can definitely hear something that's not meant to be there: faint grunting and laughter, inhuman voices not too far off.

 _“Stay down,”_ Kíli whispers.

 _“What is it?”_ Bilbo asks worriedly.

_“Trolls.”_

Thorin is growling something suspiciously ill-sounding in Khuzdul. Most probably berating the two brothers. In Westron he finishes with, "Your mother would be ashamed!"

"There, there," Bilbo tries, "it's all right." The lads have already apologized so many times and honestly, it's in the past, and they're all here in one piece. So maybe Bilbo was terrified right down to his bones for a moment there, and maybe freaked out and very disgusted when the Trolls had grabbed him, but Fíli and Kíli look very scared and upset and ashamed now. The two need a chance to recover, too. And they've already been grounded, so Bilbo honestly can't see what all the fuss is about. If the two had been Hobbit fauntlings, they'd been sent back to their rooms without dinner, and the next morning all would've been forgotten.

Any further discussion or berating is cut off when they got their first - or, well, not _technically_ first - glimpse of one of the Trolls. The humongous creature is walking through the forest with loud, creaking steps and making grunting noises and it's carrying one pony under each arm. The poor things are neighing and fretting in terror; it's a wonder that no noise or sign of any of this had reached the Dwarves' camp. As the Troll wanders past, the two Dwarves and Hobbit duck behind logs or rocks to hide from view. The Hobbit is still holding into the bowls of stew he'd been ordered to bring the brothers.

 _“He’s got Myrtle and Minty!"_ exclaims the Hobbit  
with surprising amount of disgruntlement. _"I think  
they’re going to eat them. We have to do something!"_

"Got more spunk that I'd thought," murmurs Nori.

"Oi, rude," reminds Ori, on behalf of Bilbo. Which is nice and good, because if he hadn't Bilbo would've been urged to hit someone over the head (again) like they're unruly children, the lot of them, and he's the only sensible adult around. (It feels like that sometimes. A lot of times, actually. Sometimes the Dwarves ought to have a supervisor.)

_“Yes, you should. Mountain Tr_ _olls are  
very stupid, and you’re small - they’ll never see you.”_

So that's where they got their stupid idea to send their Burglar in there alone.

Thorin clears his throat. "Kíli."

"... Yes, Uncle?" the young Dwarf answers, looking rather scared (and not without undue cause).

"You're going to have extra watch duty one week forward."

"What!"

"To be fair, the lads were trying to play heroes and impress you, Thorin," says Bofur, unexpectedly leaping to the young brothers' defense.

"Exactly. They should have realized what a stupid undertaking that was and sent for me immediately. Instead they sent Bilbo - alone, untrained, and unarmed! did I mention **alone**! - against three Mountain Trolls, as if any sane Dwarf would ever even _consider_ such an idea. Besides, you two are the heirs of Durin, Princes of your people; do you really think I would have wanted you to risk yourselves like that? And to risk Bilbo too?"

Cowed both brothers bow their heads. "Sorry, Uncle."

_“No - nonono.”_

_“It’s perfectly safe. We’ll be right behind you.”_

_“If you run into trouble,"_ adds Fíli, _"hoot twice like a_  
_barn owl and once like a brown old.”_

Then he pushes the Hobbit forward.

 _“Twice like a barn owl,"_ Bilbo mutters to himself. _"No,_  
_twice like a brown ... once like a ..._  
_are you sure this is a good idea?”_

He turns around but of course by then the two Dwarves are out of sight.

"Fíli."

"... Yes Uncle?"

"You have extra watch duty for the next _two_ weeks."

The young Dwarf groans like he's in pain after just sustaining a physical injury.

* * *

_“Mutton yesterday, mutton today and blimey,  
if it don’t look like mutton again tomorrow.”_

Now on his own, the Hobbit is lurking at the edge of the Troll camp. And instead of running around in a panic or crying out in distress, he straightens his red velvet jacked and takes a breath. At least he has his size and quietness to his advantage; the Trolls, three huge, ugly things, are talking with each other and not noticing the Hobbit at all.

"They're even ickier this up close," Bofur comments.

_“Quit your griping. These ain’t sheep.  
These is fresh nags.”_

_“Oh, I don’t like horse. I never have._  
_Not enough fat on ‘em.”_

"And their grammar's horrid. Absolutely horrid," mutters Ori like he's taking personal offence. Maybe, as a scribe, he is. "It's almost painful."

_“Well, it’s better than leathery old farmer. All skin and bone,  
he was. I’m still picking bit of him out of me teeth.”_

"So that's what happened to the farmer and his family who once lived in that area," murmurs Thorin.

Bombur makes a sad noise at the back of his throat. "Poor fellas. What a ghastly end to face."

One of the Trolls sneezes. Loudly. Bilbo winces, remembering all too well that moment when he'd been used as a substitute neckerchief, and shivers, disgusted. And now they're all probably going to see it. Ugh. (He's sure to lose much of his Hobbit dignity there.)

_“Well, that’s lovely, that is. A floater.”_

_“Oh, might improve the flavour!”_

_“Ah, there’s more where that came from.”_

_"Oh no, you don’t!”_

While the Trolls are effectively distracting themselves, Bilbo sneaks closer, right up to the small makeshift pen holding the stolen ponies. The animals are oddly quiet for that they must be panicked and confused. The pen is constructed out of fallen logs - or perhaps ripped-down trees would be a more apt description - and several very thick ropes; much thicker than Dwarves and Hobbits would use or create normally. They're far to strong and the knots too messy for the Hobbit to be able to set free the ponies without some kind of help.

And he sees it - in the form of a large, slim knife (stolen goods, probably, like all that they'd found in the Troll-hoard), resting in the belt of one of the large Trolls. It looks rather sharp and also much too big for a Hobbit to be able to wield properly; in his hands it would be more of a sword or saw. It seems a most dangerous task, to try to steal something like that from right under the Trolls' noses, but Hobbits are evidently very stubborn creatures.

"Oh, no, don't tell me you'll try that," mutters Dwalin, covering his face with a hand, and Dori looks _very_ concerned and Thorin's knuckles are white, gripping the handles of his chair so tightly that Bilbo fears he'll burst a vein. 

"Mahal's beard," whispers Ori, sounding a little terrified, as the Hobbit on the wall is inching closer to the armed Troll with clear purpose.

_“I’m starving! Are we having horse tonight or what?”_

_“Shut yer cakehole. Ye’ll eat what I give ye.”_

For one horrible heartbeat it looks like one of the Trolls is going to turn around, spot the Hobbit any second now - but the creature only gives itself a scratch before resuming to stir the giant pot hanging over the open fire. There's a collective sigh of relief. But the danger hasn't passed yet.

_“How come he’s the cook? Everything tastes the same.  
Everything tastes like chicken.”_

_“Except the chicken!”_

"I'm astounded they have any culinary knowledge at all," says Bombur. "I mean, where did they learn that? I can't fathom it, honestly."

_“I’m just saying, a little appreciation would be nice.”_

There's a nervous noise, the ponies starting to shuffle and neigh; maybe they've realized that the Hobbit is there now, and they want to get out of this situation as soon as possible. But this isn't helping Bilbo at all. The odd sounds causes the trolls to pause, to look around for a moment, though their attention quickly returns to the food they're preparing. Meanwhile, quite in vain, the Hobbit tries to shush the ponies.

Then a giant hand reaches out. It's just inches away from Bilbo's head. Far too close. In the last second it grabs some kind of humongous drinking vessel. 

"Oh, Mahal," Dori is repeating like a mantra, tightly holding onto his brother's hand for emotional support.

Thorin is looking rather pale.

 _“Oh, that is beautifully balanced, that is._  
_Wrap your laughing gear around that, eh? Good, isn’t it?_  
_That’s why I’m the cook.”_

The Hobbit hasn't given up yet. He's completely set on grabbing that knife to be able to free the ponies - and the Dwarves watching wonder what in Arda Fíli and Kíli are up to. Well, Fíli might be on his way back to camp to warn them, leaving his brother to observe the Trolls and the Burglar's progress. When, in fact, they should have intervened. Or better yet not gotten into that mess at all.

Just as the Hobbit is reaching out to take the weapon, the Troll bearing it stands up and the Hobbit ducks down. His expression of disgust is mirrored on most of the Dwarves' faces when it turns out the Troll was just going to scratch his own behind. 

The Hobbit looks terribly, awfully tiny next to the Troll. And they sent him in there **alone.** Thorin is now paler than ever, and Bilbo has to reach out and rub his shoulder in attempt to comfort him a little. Yes, it'd been a terrifying time and he'd ended up covered in snot and, really, it hadn't been a good day _at all,_ but he'd survived and is with them now, and that's the important thing.

_“Oh, me guts are grumbling. I got to  
snaffle something. Flesh, I need flesh.”_

And then happens what they all fear: Bilbo is grabbed by a large hand. But not because he's seen, but because he's standing too close as one of the Trolls tries to grab their large, dirty handkerchief to blow his nose.

They all wince collectively.

Kíli grimaces loudly. "Ewww!"

 _“Blimey! Bert, Bert! Look what’s come out_ _of me  
hooter. It’s got arms and legs and everything!”_

"Lucky they're not bright," mutters Glóin before glancing at Bilbo, who's sitting there looking a little ill. "You alright, lad?"

"Yes, yes. Just. That was _not_ a good day."

"I can see that," says Bofur, as they see the Hobbit being thrown to the ground by the Trolls and thankfully not breaking anything, but stumbling to his feet a bit dizzily. One of the Trolls is pointing their weapon at him now, obviously not sure what the Hobbit is or what to do about it.

_“What is it?”_

_"I don’t know. I don’t like the way it wriggles around.”_

_“What are you, then? An over-sized squirrel?”_

"'Squirrel'? Honestly," comments Nori. "Now 'bunny' I might've sort of understood, but 'squirrel'?'"

"Oi, no offending of the Burglar," says Glóin, and Nori glances to the left, catching sight of Thorin's warning face.

"Ah. Right. Sorry 'bout that."

"Oh, it's all right," says Bilbo, who really doesn't think it's healthy for Thorin to glare quite so much.

_“I’m a Burglar - uh, Hobbit!”_

_“A burglarhobbit?”_

"I wonder if they even knew what a burglar is," murmurs Ori thoughtfully. "I mean, would they even bother to find out?"

"They're thieves and murderers themselves," says Bofur. "Dunno if they care about labels and proper professions."

"Oi!" Nori butts in. "Thieving is a properly proper profession."

"Says the thief."

_“Can we cook him?”_

Suddenly the Trolls go from curious and bewildered to menacing, and a lot scarier than before. Something about their faces change, revealing just how monstrous they are.

_“We can try.”_

Again the Hobbit's size is to his favour, and he manages to duck and wheedle away from the Trolls' grasp. But he can't run away, he's surrounded in that clearing and all alone with three hungry, angry Trolls, one of which has a knife aimed at him, and Thorin is now looking so pale that Bilbo fears he's stopped breathing. There's an angry, upset cry from one (or maybe more) of the Dwarves as they watch their burglar being chased and then pushed at by a giant hand, which must've been hard enough to bruise.

"Bilbo!"

"I'm all right..." the Hobbit tries to soothe them. After all he's sitting right here. But that doesn't help much, because most of the Dwarves are looking either angry and red in the face, or upset and concerned, or very, very pale. Several of them seem to have trouble breathing.

_“He wouldn’t make more than a mouthful.  
Not when he’s skinned and boned.”_

_“Perhaps there’s more burglarhobbits around  
these parts. Might be enough for a pie!"_

_“Grab him!”_

_“He’s too quick!”_

_“Right. Come here, you little -”_

Suddenly Bilbo is grabbed around the legs and lifted up, upsidedown, coat hanging all askew, and he cries out. Now all the Dwarves are utterly quiet, staring aghast at the magic wall, realizing how close they'd come that day to lose their Burglar - all without seeing or even knowing about it.

_“Gotcha! Are there any more of you little fellas hiding where you shouldn’t?”_

Still being so enormously brave the Hobbit shakes his head.

 _“_ _No.”_

_“He’s lying.”_

_“No, I’m not!”_

_“Hold his toes over the fire. Make him squeal!”_

Then, _finally,_ Kíli appears. No one else, not even his brother. Just one young Dwarf, holding his sword aloft. As the Trolls are looking confused again, the Dwarf musters a commanding voice:

_“Drop him!”_

_“You what?”_

_“I said,"_ Kíli repeats, swirling his sword, _" **drop him**.”_

The Troll in question holding onto the Hobbit growls, and throws Bilbo right at Kíli, causing them to fall back onto the ground, just as the Company rush out of the underbrush with a collective yell. Their attack is swift and ferocious, but even with thirteen Dwarves, killing just one Troll would be difficult. These are three, and they're not clever but intelligent enough to speak, therefore to plan and attack, and they're _strong._ The surprise is swiftly replaced by fury as the battle is in full swing. They see Dwalin knocking one of the Trolls' teeth out with a heavy swing; Ori is aiming at their eyes with his slingshot. It's chaotic and loud.

Somehow the focus returns to the Burglar. The Burglar who, stubbornly, refuses to give up on the trapped ponies. The Troll who once owned it must've dropped the knife on the ground and now the Hobbit is using it much like a saw to cut the rope. There's a cheer; but they all were there, so they know what happened next.

"Oh, no! _Bilbo_!" Ori cries.

It's echoed on the wall by Kíli, who's calling out the Hobbit's name, catching the attention of the Company. There stand the Trolls, and two of them are holding Bilbo between them by the arms and legs. The young Dwarf tries rushing forward, but is stopped by Thorin, holding his arm out. And he was right to do it at the time, because one Dwarf couldn't have done much and the Trolls could've killed the Hobbit in a second.

_“Lay down your arms, or we’ll rip his off.”_

One by one the Dwarves drop their weapons, after Thorin sticks his sword to the ground. Kíli and Ori throw their own weapons down very angrily.

Yeah, that'd been a bad day, Bilbo thinks. He pokes gently Thorin's arm, and the Dwarf doesn't make a noise but at least he blinks so that means he's breathing. Good. "Thorin, it's all right now," he tries, but gets little response.

The Hobbit turns to Ori. "Could you see if there are any blankets?" Time for some more tea.

* * *

There's a fire, there are three trolls, and there are Dwarves on a spit.

"This is familiar," Nori remarks.

"It's  _all_  been familiar this far," says Glóin, before pausing, hesitating, and adding: "... Well, not really. Not _all_  of it, come think of it. A whole damn  _lot_  hasn't been familiar ... Forget I said anything."

"Duly noted."

(Dwalin rolls his eyes.)

This is a moment they all remember in utter clarity, and most would dearly like to forget. A scar, it is, a great scar in their honour as proud, strong Longbeards. Honourable Dwarves aren't supposed to be tied up on spits or shoved into sacks like onions or potatoes to be eaten by a bunch of dimwitted Trolls! But, alas, The trolls don't know this.

 _“Don’t bother cooking them,"_  says one of the Trolls. _  
"Let’s just sit on them and squash them into jelly.”_

"That would not be pleasant. At all," says Bofur with a grimace. "Thank Mahal they didn't do that."

 _“They should be sautéed and grilled  
with a sprinkle of sage,” _ argues the second Troll, the cook.

"I still refuse to believe Trolls know anything about cooking," Bombur says. "Really, the idea in itself is just ridiculous."

"Why not, though?" questions Ori, oddly intrigued. "I mean, they're intelligent enough to talk, so evidently they have some form of culture. They had a hoard, which means they have some kind of appreciation of riches and maybe art. Maybe they even have some kind of written language? Oh, that sounds like a interesting subject of study!"

"Honestly, Ori, only you would be excited at the prospect of learning Troll history," mutters Nori with a snort.

"Just because you have trouble remembering the runes for your own name ..."

"Oi!"

Trapped in the sacks, Thorin, his nephews, Glóin and his brother, and Bombur, they're struggling in vain to get free. There's Bilbo, too, also in a sack and his hair at disarray. He can still remember its terrible cold itch against his skin and the awful smell of troll all-over his clothes. Ugh. What a long, dreadful day that had been.

 _"Untie me, mister!"_ Bombur is growling.

Glóin, in agreement, is crying: _"Eat someone your own size!"_

"Is there anything Troll-sized other than Trolls, though? That's the question," says Fíli.

"Mini-Dragons."

"Kíli, there is no such thing."

"'Course there is. When they're little and young, they'd be like ... mini-Dragons."

"Actually," Ori puts in, "I read in the old scrolls that by comparison Smaug could be considered a 'mini-Dragon'. The ancient Dragons of the First Age were really huge. I mean, history has it that Ancalagon the Black could actually grasp a whole mountain in each of his claws."

_"No!"_

"Yes," Balin confirms with a nod. "I know my history well, and Ori speaks the truth. I have read the same scrolls myself:"

Muttering something in Khuzdul, Bifur starts measuring in the air with his hands, as if trying to visualize what Ori is saying. Meanwhile Bilbo can't picture it, at all. Not that he's seen many mountains or Dragons at all so how is he meant to imagine a Dragon of such scale, so utterly terrifying and unbelievably _huge_?

"That's big," he says a little weakly. "That's ... really, really big." Was it meant to be reassuring that Smaug isn't one of this enormous, much more powerful Dragons of the First Age? Because Smaug must still be very large from a Hobbit point of view, and they intend to march right into his lair.

"But the Dragon was killed, right? Wasn't he?" says Kíli, looking around a little nervously as if said creature could suddenly come slamming through the walls and incinerate them all with one hot breath.

"Aye, long ago, in the First Age. Ancalagon was slain by Eärendil Half-Elven," the old Dwarf tells them.

That's actually a name Bilbo can recognize; it's been echoed, vaguely, in Hobbit history as it was once heard from the Big Folk, when the Shire first was made and Blancho and his brother settled there. Most Hobbits can't remember it anymore, but Bilbo has always been fascinated by history. Though he can't recall all of the details - he'll have to ask Gandalf, maybe, the Wizard ought to know - but wasn't there this ship and a shining star involved?

Yeah, better ask Gandalf. Not right now, though. Their counterparts on the magic wall are still right in the deep of it with the trolls, no way to gain freedom in sight. Not yet.

* * *

Of course the Trolls are ignoring the angry shouts and squeals from their captives, instead turning the spit lazily and talking amongst themselves, discussing how to cook them. And the Dwarves, at the time, had ignored most of this in favour of trying to get free, trying to catch sight of any kind of weapons or an opportunity to fight the Trolls, to escape. But not Bilbo. Bilbo had listened.

_“Never mind the seasoning. We ain’t got all night. Dawn ain’t far away.  
Let’s get a move on. I don’t fancy being turned to stone.”_

The Hobbit's whole expression changes from discomfort to realization; a plan is being formed, and from this angle they can all see the gears in his clever head turn. With some difficulty, tied as he is, the Hobbit gets to his feet and jumps closer to the fire, to catch the attention of the trolls.

_"Wait! You are making a terrible mistake!"_

Óin, who had a great disadvantage when this incident took place before the Trolls had taken all their gear, including his ear-trumpet, leans closer. Last time he hadn't picked up a lot of what had been being said, other than the odd few words. The things he _had_ heard hadn't been very comforting, and had of course lead to his anger and confusion when it had seemed that Bilbo was turning on them, telling the Trolls how to cook Dwarf. Really! A Hobbit who knows how to cook Dwarves. (To be honest, the idea is rather terrifying.)

 _“You can’t reason with them,"_ Dori tells Bilbo. _"They’re half-wits!”_

 _“Half-wits? What does that make us?”_ Bofur mutters from where  
he's being turned, again and again, on the spit.

But Bilbo, their astoundingly observant and smart Hobbit, ignores the Dwarves for now in favour of the trolls, and the Trolls are actually looking at the Hobbit in interest now, listening.

_“I meant with the, euhm, with the seasoning.”_

_“What about the seasoning?”_ says one of the Trolls.

And nervousness and fright is disappearing from Bilbo's voice, replaced by determination. He's acting more like he's discussing recipes with a neighbor back in Hobbiton rather than having a discussion with a bunch of Trolls.

_“Well, have you smelt them? You’re going to need something  
stronger than sage before you plate this lot up.”_

_“Traitor!”_ Bombur shouts, echoed by several  
other voices in the background.

"I'm sorry," murmurs said Dwarf now, sheepishly. "Didn't mean it like that ..."

The second Troll snorts. _“What do you know about cooking Dwarf?”_

 _“Shut up,"_ says the first. _"Let the flurgaburburhobbit talk.”_

"They keep changing that word," Nori says. "I don't think they know what it means."

"To be fair 'burglarhobbit' isn't an _actual_ word," Ori says.

"It is now, I say!" Bofur exclaims. "Bilbo's a proper Burglarhobbit."

Oh, thank Yavanna no other Shireling but himself is present to hear that. The folks back home would be scandalized. A Burglarhobbit! Oh, the shame! (Though, Bilbo secretly might like to call out Lobelia Sackville-Baggins nee-Bracegirdle on her light-fingeredness someday. The look on her face if being called such would be hilarious.)

_“The secret to cooking Dwarf is, euhm ...”_

He evidently hasn't come that far in the plan, yet, hesitating; and the Dwarves in the background are mighty upset now, confounded and angry that the Hobbit is advising the Trolls _how to eat them._ The disgrace! Kíli appears especially betrayed, frowning and mouth down-turned.

Now, though, watching it all unfold a second time, they are only grateful.  

  
_“Yes? Come on, tell us the secret!”_

_“Yes, yes, I’m telling you! The secret is ... to skin them first!”_

"Not one of my brightest moments," mutters Bilbo to himself but Thorin only smiles gently.

The Dwarf seems more recovered now - at least for the moment - with more colour to his face and a blanket resting on his shoulders. "You saved us all with your sharp wit, for which I am grateful."

And the Hobbit doesn't mean to start blushing to the tip of his ears but Thorin is looking at him very intently. It's rare to see him smile like that. "Oh, uhm, that, it was nothing, really."

A pained whine is heard from Kíli. "Uncle's doing it again ..."

"Yeah, I know," his brother whispers back. "Try to ignore it."

"It's too awkward, I _can't_."

"Oi, shut it," mutters Glóin. "We _all_ notice it."

That makes Thorin abruptly stop staring at the Hobbit and instead his focus returns to the moh-vee. (Or at least he tries to focus on it.) Bilbo just feels more confused and a little out of his depth, honestly. Thorin has smiled at him a lot lately ...

* * *

Dismayed cries are heard from the trapped Dwarves.

_“What? Skin us?!”_

"To be fair," Nori says, "that sounded pretty bad when you're tied to a spit."

"At least be glad he didn't tell them to make us into a mash, or something else horrid like that," Glóin says.

The Dwarf splutters. "'Horrid'? To be skinned _would_ be horrid!"

 _“Tom, get me filleting knife,"_ says the troll cook.

_“I’ll skin **you** , you little ...!”_

"And how'd you've do that?" asks Bofur dryly, shooting Glóin a glance.

"Oh, I'd think of something."

 _“I won’t forget that. I won’t forget it,”  
_ Dwalin mutters in the Hobbit's direction.

"I've forgotten now," Dwalin announces seriously, and Bilbo is rather glad because he'd rather not be facing the pointy end of one of the big Dwarf's axes. 

_“What a load of rubbish! I’ve eaten plenty with  
their skins on. Scarf ‘em, I say, boots and all.”_

As one of the Trolls says this, Bilbo spots a movement in the trees; and they get to follow his line of vision. There, with a brief hint of sunlight beyond the valley, is a very familiar-looking silhouette.

"Thank Yavanna you showed up, Gandalf. I didn't know if my plan would actually work," says Bilbo and the Wizard only nods.

"But it did. It was a job very well done, Bilbo."

"Aye! I'm sorry for the things I said while in that sack," Fíli says. "I didn't mean any of it."

_“He’s right. Nothing wrong with a bit of raw Dwarf!  
Nice and crunchy.” _

A giant hand reaches down and picks Bombur up, meaning to eat him head-first, and Bilbo lets out a panicked noise.

_“Oh, not that one! He’s, he’s infected!”_

_“Huh?!”_

_“You what?”_

_“He’s got ... worms, in his ... tubes.”_

Even if the Hobbits is wildly improvising, the Trolls believe every word. And to be honest Bilbo wasn't sure the creatures would care; they didn't seem to be ones much for personal hygiene, after all. But they did seem to care - somewhat - about their food and the state of it. That's probably what made the trick work. The Troll holding Bombur lets him go with a disgusted grimace and the Dwarf rolls to the ground, thankfully without breaking anything.

 _“In fact they all have,"_ the Hobbit goes on. _"They’re infested with parasites.  
It’s a terrible business; I wouldn’t risk it, I wouldn’t.”_

 _“Parasites?"_ Óin repeats. _"Did he say parasites?  
What are you talking about, laddie?"_

 _“We don’t have parasites!"_ shouts Kíli, very insulted indeed.  
_" **You** have parasites!”_

"Very mature, brother."

"Oh, shut up," Kíli mutters, poking his brother's side with an elbow. "Oh, crap, Uncle's glaring at me again ..."

Upon these reactions, the scare and anxiety on the Hobbit's face is replaced by a weary sigh and Bilbo rolls his eyes at the Dwarves' collective stupidity as they only start squabbling. And in that moment he may have also been considering the chances of successfully suing said Dwarves because it was never in his contract to outwit a bunch of Trolls to save the Company's hides. (It said 'Burglar', not 'What-have-you-at-a-moment's-notice'. Or did it? Oh, he _knew_ he should've read that 34th paragraph through a bit more closely!)

But then, _finally_ , Thorin catches on, and he delivers a swift kick to whoever is nearest to him, which turns out to be Kíli. This catches the attention of the others and, after a brief moment of silence (where probably a tree could fall to the ground and no one notice), they start changing their tune.

_“I’ve got parasites as big as my arm!”_

"Idiots, lot of us," mutters Dwalin, sounding a little disappointed.

"At least one of you understood. After a while," Bilbo amends. Though it'd taken longer than he'd thought and hoped. Maybe it was just the hopelessness and ridiculousness of the situation getting to them, causing the Dwarves to ignore what was right in front of them.

 _"Mine are the biggest parasites,"_  insists Kíli.   
_"I’ve got **huge** parasites! We're riddled.”_

 _“Yes, I’m riddled,”_ adds Ori and is quickly  
joined by his his oldest brother.

_“Yes, we are, badly.”_

"One could think you're trying to compete," remarks Glóin.

"Wanna bet on it?"

"Oh no, Nori, no you don't. I refuse to lose more money to you."

"Too late," says the Dwarf in question triumphantly, and suddenly lifts his left hand to show that he's holding a pouch full of coins. How and when he got that, the others have no idea; no one has noticed anything, and Glóin gives an upset cry.

"That's mine!"

"Nori, give it back," Thorin orders, before a fight can break out. Their pickpocket is really much more skilled than any of them had thought, though. Except maybe Dwalin, who, back in the Blue Mountains, has been responsible for catching Nori once or twice when he'd been up to no good.

"A thief doesn't return his loot," Nori argues. "It's the principle of the thing."

"Give it back or I'll punch your nose in," says Dwalin, and Nori sighs and makes a show of throwing the money pouch back to its rightful owner. It lands square on Glóin's broad forehead, and the Dwarf clutches it reverently (no one expects any less).

 _“What would you have us do, then,"_ says one of the Trolls,  
turning to Bilbo. _"let ‘em all go?”_

_“Well ...”_

Evidently not happy about what's going on, the Troll reaches down, shoving Bilbo's quite harshly, and Thorin draws a breath because he hadn't seen that at the time, and not cared as much as he should have. Now he can't help but wonder how badly that must've bruised the Hobbit, being pushed by a creature several times the size and strength of himself, though he didn't lose his footing.

_“You think I don’t know what you’re up to?  
This little ferret is taking us for fools.”_

_“Ferret?!”_ cries Bilbo, affronted.

Maybe he should put it on a tunic: _'Ferret', 'bunny' and 'little' in all and any combinations hereby banned, _Bilbo considers, arms crossed. Also 'dear' when it comes from Gandalf, especially when he's about to say something double-meaning like 'Let's discuss the possibility of an adventure over a cup of tea (meaning, I'll bring thirteen Dwarves with me as plus ones)'.

_“Fools?”_

"It sounds surprised," notes Bofur. "Really can't see why."

"Had it coming."

Then: the voice of the Wizard appearing on the top of a large rock, right by the edge of the camp.

“ _The dawn will take you all!”_

The Trolls turn around, startled.

_“Who’s that?”_

_“No idea.”_

_“Can we eat him too?”_

"Oh, I'd liked to've seen that," says Dwalin with a wry smirk. "Wizard on a spit."

"With a sprinkle of rabbit-dung," adds Nori. "And an entree of roasted pointy hat." 

(Gandalf does _not_ look amused.)

But the trolls never get the chance to find out if they can or cannot eat Wizards. Gandalf brings his staff down to crack the stone, causing a huge block to fall down and as it does, the clearing is flooded with warm light. Sunlight. The Trolls can't move or run, immediately starting to change, their leathery skin turning hard and grey. They twist and turn in groaning pain before freezing forever as three Troll-shaped statues, never to walk again (much to the relief of the rest of Middle-earth). 

Cheering breaks out. Thorin smiles in relief, one of those rare smiles and Bilbo thinks that might have been the first during their whole journey. The Dwarf is usually so grim.

They're still stuck in their sacks, though, weaponless and unable to move much, and several of them are yet tied to the spit hanging over the open fire. One of which is Dwalin, who cries angrily to whoever of his close neighbors:

_“Oh, get your foot out of my back!”_

"Well, that could've ended worse," says Óin.

"At which point we'd not be here to contemplate it."

Nori gestures theatrically with his hand. "Oh, Dori, you're always so deep and philosophical, it gives me a headache."

* * *

"Fíli, do you think it's safer now? Uncle still looks a bit ... upset."

"Kíli, you don't have to whisper that loudly. Use a quieter voice."

"This is my _only_ whispering voice."

"Boys, I can hear you both. Yes, you're still grounded. No, Kíli, looking at me like that will not ease your punishment at all. In fact it could worsen it."

"What if," Kíli says pleadingly, "I promised that I will never, never ever ever, at all, whatsoever, in any way possible, at any time, will let anything like the Troll incident happen again, that Bilbo won't ever be hurt again, and I'll be _really_ good and take extra watch duty and everything and I'll make sure Fíli doesn't do anything stupid -" _"Oi!"_ "- and, did I mention that Bilbo won't be hurt _at all_  in any way ever in the future?"

"Give or take an 'ever'," mutters Dwalin sarcastically.

But Bilbo considers the young Dwarf's long-winded apology, even if Thorin looks quite unimpressed. "... Fíli, Kíli, would you two be dear and make your Uncle and I some tea?" Thorin could use some more right about now. He still hasn't regained all of his colour. "And find an extra blanket and, oh, if there's some sponge cake that'd be lovely."

Kíli and his brother both snap into attention at once, scurrying over to the food-filled table in search of a pot and some leaves and two large mugs, at which point Bilbo holds back a surprised noise, eyebrows raising. And now Thorin is looking at the Hobbit much like a tired parent is looking at a partner or friend who's just managed to subdue two wild animals with a single word; mouth a little agape, relief shining in his eyes. _Huh._

"I didn't think that would actually work ... Good to know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wordlist**  
>  **(Khuzdul)**  
>  **Amad** Mother
> 
>  **Additional notes :**  
> [Dragons](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Dragons) existed in Middle-earth between the First and the Third Age (presumably, maybe others lived on and are unknown beyond the Third Age). The oldest dragon, [Glaurung](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Glaurung), was created by Morgoth and is known as the Father of Dragons and he was slain by Túrin Turambar if the year 501 of the First Age. He was huge and terrible but didn't have wings or the ability to fly, though he breathed fire.  
> The biggest ever Winged Dragon was [Ancalagon the Black](http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Ancalagon_the_Black) who was killed by Eärendil in F.A. 587.
> 
>  **On the matter of Hobbits and family trees:**  
>  _[Fortinbras II Took](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Fortinbras_Took_II)_ is a Hobbit and currently (as of T.A. 2941 or Shire Reckoning 1341) Thain of the Shire. Bilbo's cousin on his mother's side.  
>  The thing about the family of _Isabella and Gregor Brandybuck_ is completely made up. I just wanted that contrast between Hobbits and Dwarves, in society and culture and family. I have a sort of headcanon of Hobbits as a rather private yet not prude people, where large families are pretty expected, and that they're an open people (to some things. not adventures, though). So the "four people involved" could be any as you please to imagine, I'm not going to go into more detail about it.  
>  _Lily Brownlock_ is an OC Hobbit of the Shire, invented for this fic. She lives in Hobbiton. She's the same generation as Bilbo, born in S.R. 1299/T.A. 2999, making her 42 years old at the time of the Company's Quest.  
>  According to canon, _[Donnamira Took](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Donnamira_Took)_ (daughter of Gerontious Took and Adamanta Chubb) was born in S.R. 1256/T.A. 2856 and _[Belladonna Took](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Belladonna_Took)_ , Bilbo's mother, in S.R. 1252/T.A. 2852. In this fic I've made them twins both born in '52. I just think it's highly likely that Hobbits have a high productive rate and so it's not that rare with twins and such, as is discussed in this fic. Their sister, Mirabella, was born in S.R. 1260. _Earlier I made an error stating two different things in the story text and in the notes regarding these facts. It's now been corrected, so the note matches the fic. Thank you phoenixdaisy for pointing this out!_  
>  _Lobelia_ was born a Bracegirdle and later married _Otho Sackville-Baggins_ , taking on his family name. I hope that clears things up.  
> I have this idea of trying to include more backstory and headcanons and such that isn't directly featured/tpuched upon/ explained in canon. It's great fun to delve deeper into stuff like that. Does anyone have any headcanons related to Hobbits or Dwarves that you'd like see in this fic?


	6. What Does the Warg Say? Nothing, Because IT'S GOING TO EAT YOU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Hello and a Happy New Year, everybody! I look forward to sharing another year here on AO3. Hopefully by writing more than I did in 2015!_  
>  _Sorry for this massive delay - I've just been so busy with my university studies and other irl stuff, I've only been able to write very sporadically and I realized I needed to set aside some to watch the movie again just to get a grasp of the details. So that's what I did for New Year's: I've marathoned the whole Hobbit trilogy (which was awesome and a bit exhausting, because nine hours of watching ...and then to finally see the extended edition of BotFA....) Anyway, it's been some time since last I seriously wrote something fanfic-wise, so I feel a bit rusty. I apologize in advance for any errors in grammar etc., and if this chapter feels a little stilted because of my rustiness. (I'm working on that.)_  
>  _But, anyhow, here we are - please enjoy! Thank you everyone who has read, commented, left kudos on, and/or bookmarked this fic. Without you there'd be no fic!_

**Chapter 6:**

# What Does the Warg Say?   
Nothing, Because IT'S GOING TO EAT YOU

 **wherein there's a wizard or two, a troll-hoard to loot,**  
**and the company runs, and runs and runs,**  
**and running running runs,** **and they**  
**really deserve a good tea break**  
**(this is getting ridiculous)**

* * *

Beneath the softly gleaming morning sun, thirteen Dwarves and a Hobbit are in the midst of freeing themselves from the ropes and sacks the Trolls had trapped them in. There’s a flurry of activity, weapons and gear being searched for. They get a glimpse of Bifur being helped to his feet by Bombur and Bofur, before the image pans over the clearing to one of the now-stoned giant trolls. Gandalf knocks at the frozen form with a grin.

Once again clad in his furs and carrying his sword, Thorin approaches the Wizard. He doesn't look as grumpy as before.

_“Where did you go, if I may ask?”_

_“To look ahead.”_

_“What brought you back?”_

_“Looking behind.”_

“Smartarse,” mutters Nori and crosses his arms.

“Better being a clever behind than being all behind,” says Bofur, and Bilbo has to pretend coughing into his sleeve to conceal a small laugh. Balin shoots him a brief concerned look, before catching his eye and then the old Dwarf hides a smile as well. Better not let Gandalf see that though, or they might all suddenly be turned into frogs or the like.

The Thorin on the magic wall smiles - just a tiny smile, but still refreshing to see - and nods his head in acknowledgement.

_“Nasty business. Still, they’re all in one piece.”_

“Would’ve been a bit awkward if we weren’t," murmurs Nori. "If the Wizard had appeared and found half of us already eaten by the Trolls. ‘Oh, sorry I’m late, chaps; I hope none of you have lost yer beards? Dearly sorry ’bout that.’”

 _“No thanks to your burglar,”_ Thorin remarks.

“... our,” Bilbo is a little startled to hear Thorin say on his breath. “I mean, the Company's burglar. One of us.”

_“He had the nous to play for time. None of the rest of you thought of that.”_

“And better being clever than looking behind!”

“Will you stop that? It’s giving me a headache,” Kíli complains with a grimace.

“Just because _you’re_ not a very clever behind,” Fíli counters.

“Would you two just shut up?!” growls Dwalin. "Or I’ll give you both permanent headaches.” He waves a fist for emphasis. No doubt he’d have been waving one of his beloved axes around if their weapons hadn’t earlier been taken from them.

_“They must have come down from the Ettenmoors.”_

_“Since when do Mountain Trolls venture this far south?”_ Thorin ponders.

_“Oh, not for an Age. Not since a darker power ruled these lands.”_

That sounds like it could be an awful clue to something. A sign which they did not notice or consider before. Oh, that doesn’t sound good. Bilbo casts a worried glance at the Wizard, who merely looks thoughtful smoking his pipe, and then at Thorin. The Dwarf is frowning, looking far less at ease than his counterpart before them.

_“They could not have moved in daylight.”_

Nori makes the most pompous noise. “Thank ye Mahal we have a Wizard around to tell us these things.”

Gandalf frowns and huffs around his pipe, while several of the Dwarves snicker, and Bilbo doesn't resist the urge to roll his eyes.

“Oh, aye!” Bofur agrees loudly, nodding. “What would we ever do without one?”

_“There must be a cave nearby.”_

“And our illustrious leader strikes again with his sharp observational skills.”

“Oh be quiet, you,” mutters Ori (surprisingly, or perhaps not since it was his brother Nori who made that comment). Bilbo is really glad that Thorin doesn’t appear to have heard Bofur’s remark, or said Dwarf will probably find his hat on fire within five seconds.

* * *

There is indeed a cave. The first time, Bilbo had never gone down there; he’d merely followed to the entrance, glanced inside and decided he was much better off not getting any closer, thank you. The stench of it carried rather far, and he’d had his share of all things Troll-related for the rest of his day (or life). Instead he’d found a nice rock to sit on and rest his feet for a moment. This is the first time he gets to see what was actually down there.

It’s dark; various knickknacks and stolen treasure and animal bones are lying half-buried in the soft dirt. The buzzing of flies and other insects is a constant background noise. There’s no telling how long some of the things down there have been waiting, taken by the Trolls from their rightful owners years or decades ago. Indeed, it remains a mystery how the Trolls got their filthy hands on much of the stuff; ancient swords, gold coins from both North and South, even the odd silver chandelier.

They descend with Gandalf leading the troop. Several of the Dwarves cough and choke on the bad air.

 _“Oh, what’s that stench?”_ Nori cries.

 _“It’s a Troll-hoard,"_ says Gandalf by way of explanation. _  
"Be careful what you touch.”_

Thorin is holding a torch over his head and the yellow light from it falls across the ground, revealing the glimmer of gold and other precious metals. While their leader is looking around, Bofur spots a heap of coins and pokes at the pile with his toe.

_"Seems a shame just to leave it lying around. Anyone could take it.”_

_“Agreed,"_  says Glóin. _"Nori, get a shovel.”_

“You never mentioned there was so much of it!" Kíli exclaims, sounding a little betrayed. "Could’ve brought some gold for the rest of us.”

“Hush, little brother," Fíli tries to calm him. "It’s not like we’ve been taking to saying in fancy inns, so lugging ’round that coin would’ve been a bother.”

“Except had we had that coin we might’ve been able to take to inns and avoid a lot of trouble.”

“Kíli, exactly how many inns have you seen between there and here? Hm?”

The dark-haired Dwarf ponders for a moment, worrying his bottom lip and looking at his hands as if to start counting on fingers (and eventually toes). “Uh ... not that many.”

“That’s it. Zilch. Zero. None. Nada. See, **khurm** , it’d only have been a bother.”

Uncaring of what the others of the Company are up to, Thorin is inspecting what appears to be a dagger. However he must have spotted something potentially much nicer under a heap of cobwebs. Putting aside the torch he pulls out two large swords resting in their sheaths, both of which the Company now know: Glamdring and Orcrist. The Dwarf takes them with no small amount of astonishment. They are amazingly preserved, though there is no telling how long they may have been down here, hidden from the sun. He hands one of the swords to Gandalf, for the Wizard to look more closely at.

 _“These swords were not made by any Troll,”_ Thorin observes.

“And, once again, the sharp observational skills of our illustrious leader - _ow_!”

Before Bofur has a chance to finish a hand reaches out to smack him upside the head, and Thorin sends Dwalin a grateful nod.

_“Nor were they made by any smiths among Men. These were  
forged in Gondolin, by the High Elves of the First Age.”_

The change in Thorin’s face and body language is immediate, going from awed to disgusted, like he’s having an allergic reaction. He means to put Orcrist back where he found it, no doubt silently cursing Elves for generally existing, but Gandalf stops him sharply.

_“You could not wish for a finer blade!”_

“Wizard had got a good point, loathe as I am to admit it,” Dwalin comments. “The weapons we brought are all fine, but that sword’s one of the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Even if Elves made it.”

“Those ones in the First Age knew some stuff,” Ori says, ignoring Thorin’s indignant huffing.

The Thorin on the magic wall must be agreeing because he unsheathes the sword, revealing a surprisingly sharp and clean blade, given the time it’s been lying down there in that cave like scrap. Pleased, Gandalf takes the other sword and moves onward to explore more of the hoard. All the while this brief exchange has been going on, Glóin, Nori and Bofur are burying that small chest of coins that the latter had found. Dwalin, standing guard resting his arm on his axe, looks on. He doesn’t look impressed or amused, but he looks like that a lot so no one’s particularly bothered by it. 

 _“We’re making a long-term deposit,”_ Glóin explains.  
Dwalin just shakes his head with a small sigh.

“I thought it was rather clever,” Bombur says. “It’s not like anyone else would come and fetch that gold and make use of it.”

“That we know of,” adds Ori. “Though don’t you remember the beginning of the moh-vee? Didn’t the older version of Bilbo mention a chest of gold smelling of Trolls?”

“Yeah,” Bofur nods. “So this is where he got it from. But why? I mean, not that I mind him taking that gold, but what about his fourteenth share of the treasure as reward for the Quest? That was never mentioned. Just thought it a bit odd.”

“Yes ... why, indeed?” murmurs Gandalf thoughtfully, though he says nothing more on the subject, only picking up his pipe for another smoke. 

Bilbo can’t explain it, but for a moment an uneasy feeling settles in his stomach. Like he’s eaten something a little foul; no, not quite like that. More like that sensation one has a few seconds before something really bad is about to happen, and you just _know_ that it’s going to happen. A bit like that. Bofur is asking a very sane question, there. His smial, at the beginning of the story, hadn’t appear to be filled to the brim with gold or anything the like. So whatever had happened to the fourteenth share which was promised in the contract? Not that Bilbo knows whatever he would do with so much gold. That one chest would do for quite a long while; Bilbo certainly wouldn’t complain. But, still.

Glancing to his side he spots a similar expression to his own on Thorin’s face; slightly shadowed and worried, like he's thinking along the same lines.

_“Let’s get out of this foul place. Come on, let’s go. Bofur, Glóin, Nori!”_

One by one the Dwarves exit the cave, Thorin and Dwalin first closely followed by the other three Dwarves. But Gandalf lingers for a moment; when he moves to follow, there’s a tiny clinking sound as the Wizard’s foot connects with something half-hidden in the dirt. He looks down and they all get to see the hilt of a rather familiar dagger.

“Aha, I see,” says Ori. “I wondered where you got that.”

* * *

The Grey Wizard exits the cave. In the immediate vicinity outside of it there are several of the Company moving about; Dori and Ori, perhaps in conversation. Bifur, oddly, seems to be handing Kíli the remaining skull of an animal, to the befuddlement of the other Dwarf. There’s Bilbo, too, lingering outside and Gandalf approaches him.

_“Bilbo.”_

_“Hmm?”_

Something is held out to him, and the Hobbit, surprised and out of reflex, accepts the dagger which to him is more of a sword.

_“Here. This is about your size.”_

But Bilbo shakes his head, doubtful. _“I can’t take this.”_

The Wizard pays no heed to his protests. _“The blade is of Elvish make,  
which means it will glow blue when Orcs or Goblins are nearby.”_

The Hobbit doesn’t look the least comforted or calmed by that. Quite the opposite; frustration and shades of fear seeps into his expression.

_“I have never used a sword in my life.”_

Watching the scene unfold, Thorin makes a thoughtful noise. “I believe some sword lessons may be in order.”

Unable to stop the surprised noise coming from his throat, Bilbo splutters. “Now, I, uh, I don’t think that’s entirely necessary ...”

But the Dwarf will not have it. “For your own safety. You did well enough, I’m sure, for never have handled a sword before, when Azog attacked us after we escaped the Goblin tunnels. But you need training; least of all to gain some strength of arms.”

The Hobbit frowns, highly doubtful that his arms could ever get stronger. It doesn’t really help sitting next to Thorin and became so aware of the Dwarf’s own strength, or that Dwalin joins in, who must be the most muscled person Bilbo has ever encountered. And it’s not like his sword is that heavy. Or that he plans on using it anymore than absolutely necessary (meaning, hopefully not ever again).

“Yeah,” Dwalin says. “Your wrists are too thin; you need more muscle there.”

Bilbo blinks. “Uh ... right.”

“Good! Then it’s settled,” Thorin says, sounding pleased. “As soon as we’re out of this place, I’ll teach you personally.”

Nori smirks. “Of course you will.” At the Dwarf’s sudden glare, the Company’s official pickpocket just smiles wider. “Your Majesty.”

_“And I hope you never have to. But if you do, remember this:  
true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one.”_

“That is good advice. For once,” Glóin adds the last bit with a glare leveled at the Wizard. Gandalf doesn’t react like he notices it. Maybe he’s getting used to being glared at by Dwarves. They’ve been doing that a lot as of late.

Bifur makes some rapid, complicated gestures with his hands in Iglishmêk. He exclaims something in Khuzdul, a harangue of words that Bilbo has no idea what it means. Curious the Hobbit whispers to Thorin, “What’s he saying?”

“That was Ancient Dwarfish, an old Khuzdul saying.” Dwarves usually are so strict with their secrets and traditions, not revealing any information to foreigners that they feel break the rules of secrecy, so Bilbo doesn’t actually expect a much better answer than that. But Thorin goes on. “Roughly translated it means, ‘Mercy is good for merciful souls, but mercy should not be given to the enemy’.”

The Hobbit nods. Right. Perhaps Bifur is not so keen on mercy, himself, given his injury caused by the Orcs during the Battle of Azanulbizar. He would certainly not show mercy to the enemy in battle. Bilbo thinks he can understand the sentiment.

Then there’s a warning; they call recognize Thorin’s voice.

_“Something’s coming!”_

The Grey Wizard moves to leave, drawing his newly acquired sword from his belt and walking away from Bilbo who in vain tries catching the Wizard’s attention by calling his name. Bilbo remembers how he’d tried to make Gandalf somehow take the sword back. He’s a Hobbit, by Varda’s green garden, not a warrior - whatever should he do with a sword? But Gandalf walks toward the rest of the Company, calling out to gather them.

_“Stay together! Hurry now, arm yourselves!”_

For a moment Bilbo lingers, and he considers the dagger, unsheathing it. It too shines cleanly in the morning sun, and the Hobbit’s arm is surprisingly steady as he holds it aloft: his first time wielding a sword, yet unknowing that within not even a month he will have to use it against both Orc and Warg and Goblin.

* * *

_“Thieves! Fire! Murder!”_

“Oh, it’s the batty guy again.”

“You should not speak in such a manner about Radagast the Brown, Master Nori,” Gandalf says gravelly. He uses the same manner of voice that Bilbo remembers being chastised by as a child by his Aunt Belba for calling Rudigar Bolger ‘bald’ (said Hobbit had had nearly no hair on his feet whatsoever, and how could four-year-old Bilbo have known that it was wrong to point that out?). “He may be odd in your eyes, but he is a Wizard, and much more powerful than you know.”

Ori makes a considering noise at the back of his throat. “Why is he crying out ‘fire’ and ‘thieves’? We didn’t get to see any fire or thieves last time we saw the Wizard.”

“Huh. Good question, little brother,” Dori says. "Maybe there’s a fire or thief someplace we didn’t get to see. Wherever the Wizard came from. Not to talk about ‘murder’ - what I remember, at least, there was no murder that involved the Wizard, or us, at that point in time.”

“The Brown Wizard doesn’t seem much like the murderin’ sort,” Glóin adds. “Does he?”

The Dwarves do have a point, Bilbo has to agree. Gandalf hasn’t told them whatever the two Wizards conferred about that time in the sunlit glade. In-between finding the Troll-hoard, running from Wargs, and finding brief respite in Rivendell, no one hadn’t thought to ask, either. 

 _“Radagast! It’s Radagast the Brown. What on earth_  
_are you doing here?”_

_“I was looking for you, Gandalf. Something’s wrong.  
Something is terribly, terribly wrong.”_

__“Yes ...?”_ _

“He should have written down a message,” suggests Glóin. “Or some kind of note. Seems he has some trouble with the memory.”

“Maybe it’s a Wizard trait,” adds Bofur. “Something in the blood.”

Huffing around his pipe, Gandalf chooses not to comment. (Which might be for the better for everyone, really.)

_“Oh. Just give me a minute. Oh, I had a thought  
and now I’ve lost it. It was right there, on the tip of my tongue!”_

Wordlessly, the Grey Wizard reaches out and plucks something from the Brown Wizard’s mouth.

_“Oh, it’s not a thought at all! It’s a silly old ... stick insect.”_

“That was the moment I thought we were all doomed to die,” Bofur announces.

“Oh? ’Cause I thought that like at least half a dozen times before that point. And after that, too,” counters Nori.

“Yeah, well, a new Wizard comes up and it’s evident he’s -” There's a warning look from Gandalf, and the Dwarf noisily clears his throat. “I mean, that the guy has had one too few, and has a warning to tell us except he's forgotten what it was and then pulls a stick insect from his mouth - wouldn’t that get any Dwarf worried? Then being taken aside so we don’t get to hear that warning anyway. Just sayin’.”

“It did rather remind me of that trick show I saw from that passing troupe from the Iron Hills when I was forty-two,” says Glóin. “Apropos stick insects. Though there was more fire and less stick insects involved then.”

Intrigued Bilbo sits up a little straighter. “Oh, I think have seen such a thing too once! There was a caravan of entertainers passing though Hobbiton once, when I was a faunt. Breefolk, I think, because no proper Shireling would do things like that.”

“Huh, why not? It seems like fun,” Bofur remarks. “Bit dangerous maybe. With that climbing atop of shoulders and swinging around and stuff. And the swallowing fire. I mean, could lose your beard by accident.”

“Oh! Don’t talk of such things!” Dori moans, horrified at the mere thought. Several Dwarves have paled at the mention of the combination of ‘fire’ and ‘beard’.

“Well,” Bilbo says, “I think my father once said: ‘Entertaining’s all fun until you're hungry.’ I guess such acrobatics wouldn’t be that fun on an empty stomach.”

* * *

Nor is running from Wargs. That fun. Running on an empty stomach, that is. Which is about to occur very, very soon.

But first: two Wizards are having a chat. 

The Company watch with wide eyes and curious ears, because back when this had happened none of them had been close enough to hear the pair talk. Afterward Gandalf had never reported what the subject of conversation was about either; whatever warning that Radagast had come rushing and shouting through the woods with had been given to Gandalf only. In-between running from hungry Wargs, ducking under the nose of the Elves, and escaping the Goblins, there had been no chance to interrogate the Wizard.

Now they see Gandalf and Radagast conferring in a small clearing, some way from the Dwarves and Hobbit. There’s a glimpse of Thorin, Dwalin and Óin in the background, as well as Ori and Bombur, but no one is close enough to overhear. Radagast looks most distraught and agitated, whereas Gandalf - surprise, surprise - is calmly smoking his pipe.

_“The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf. A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows anymore,  
at least nothing good. The air is foul with decay. But worse are the webs.”_

“Hang on,” mutters Fíli, remembering that sequence not too long ago that they saw of Radagast’s shack being attacked by a bunch of shadows. “Webs? Like ... spider webs?”

“Sounds like it ...”

“D’you reckon those shadowy things we saw earlier was that? Big spiders?”

Dori clamps his hands over his ears. “Stop! Stop! Shh! My nightmares!”

Bilbo shudders at the mere thought. It would, however, explain a few things. The glimpse earlier given of Radagast saving that hedgehog - the woods clearly had been dying, bodies of small animals lying scattered about, trees slowly wilting, grass greying - it makes sense if there’s a lot of spider webs about. A forest does not die easy, Bilbo knows that. He’s after all a Hobbit and he knows a thing or two about growing things. If there's a foul thing in the air, or water, or soil, the trees and flower could be affected. But a lot of spider webs ought to be able to do that to, if there’s enough of it. It could essentially choke a forest to death. But - in theory, yes. Could there really be spiders that big and many to weave webs to kill a whole forest?

_“Webs? What do you mean?”_

_“Spiders, Gandalf, giant ones. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I’m not a Wizard."_

“Giant spiders. Giant. Spiders,” Glóin repeats. “There are _giant spiders_ in the Greenwood and we're meant to go in there?!”

“...let’s vote to take another route?” Dori says weakly. Several heads bob up and down in silent agreement. Even if Kíli stubbornly raises a hand and says, “I’m not scared of some puny spiders!”

Bifur’s hands are moving rapidly. “ **Yêbith** - **lu akradihu**!”

“Ungoliant?” echoes Balin, blanching. The old Dwarf is a scholar; he knows that name, and it is nothing good.

Bilbo however frowns, confused. He’s never heard that name before. “What, or who, is Ungoliant?”

“That is the name of an evil spirit in the shape of a humongous spider which lived before the First Age,” Balin says very seriously. “A monster of horrible darkness, and a servant of Morgoth. She was meant to be destroyed long ago, devoured by her own hunger.”

“Yet we saw those shadowy things earlier. Looked like spiders to me,” says Nori, face darkening. “Definitely saw it. And, all for it, I doubt that the Brown Wizard would make something like this up.”

 _“I followed their trail,”_  Radagast continues. _“They came from Dol Guldur.”_

That name Bilbo _does_ recognize, since they had discussed it earlier, when watching the first sequence with Radagast. Then a glimpse of that old fortress had been given, and Balin had explained what it was. An old stronghold of a now-gone enemy, he’d called it. Abandoned since long ago. Now several the Dwarves grow paler and tenser at the mention of the name, including Thorin. Gandalf is uncharacteristically quiet now, and Dwalin has taken to glaring at the Wizard (again), for having kept quiet about all this information. Information that they’re definitely might find useful (as a warning, if nothing else) for the future. Surely, Bilbo thinks, surely Gandalf had been meaning to tell them eventually? Before they left Beorn’s and made it to the Elven forest. Yes, surely ...

_“Dol Guldur? But the old fortress is abandoned.”_

_“No, Gandalf.”_  By now the Wizard sounds positively afraid. _“It is not.”_

* * *

The scene suddenly shifts. They’re no longer in the small stretch of woods by the boarders of Rivendell. Instead there’s another forest, much darker, with a heavy overcast darkening the sky. There, smack-bang in the middle of it, is a big fortress. The stone is withered, all signs of life void. Whatever wood and other organic materials that once had been there, they have long since rotted away. It looks old, very old, and cold. Despite himself Bilbo shivers. There's something about that place, something that doesn’t feel right. Maybe it is because it’s a large, abandoned - or not, according to Radagast - ghastly ruin in the middle of nowhere. And there’s Radagast, a tiny figure next to all that stone, approaching the fortress on a bridge.

Next thing, Radagast is inside the fortress, some kind of small courtyard, now dead and silent. Thorns and vines are crawling across the walls; a statue or two, hundreds of years old, stand still and regal, the only signs of whatever ancient civilization that once lived here.

 _“A dark power dwells there, such as I have never felt before,”_  
the Brown Wizard continues saying, making it obvious that this is the retelling of  
events to Gandalf. Only now they are allowed to see it happen too.  
_“It is the shadow of an ancient horror.”_

“What is _that!?”_

“Look out!”

“Mahal’s blue boots!”

Bilbo holds onto the armrests of his chair tightly, eyes wide, staring in horror as the statue right behind Radagast moves. It’s a tiny shift at first, but they all see it. The statue - of some kind of warrior wearing a cloak, face hidden in darkness - tightens its grip of the sword in its hand and it no longer appears as ordinary, unmoving stone. There’s a crisp, brief noise and Radagast freezes. Slowly the Wizard glances over his shoulder. He has his staff pointed in front of himself like a weapon.

_“One that can summon the spirits of the dead.”_

Something rises from the statue. A shadow - no, a light, a light in the shape of a Man, no longer cloaked but wearing a crown. 

“A ghost!” gasps Thorin, flabbergasted. “How in the name of Mahal ...”

“‘One that can summon the spirits of the dead’,” Ori whispers, and Dori whimpers, covering his eyes and for once no one can fault him for it. “Whatever inhabits that ruin must be some kind of foul, foul thing. To be able to summon the dead ...”

“Run! Run, for Mahal’s sake!” Kíli shouts at the magic wall, shaking a fist. “Run!”

With a high-pitched shriek the ghost launches at Radagast, sword held high. But the Wizard manages to block the strike with his staff, no doubt the magic inside the staff rather than the wood holding back the white blade. After a brief but very tense exchange of blows, Radagast pushes his staff right through the ghost, causing it to dissolve and fade away. Not all of it, though. Something clatters to the ground: a sword, now looking very real. It looks matted and dark, unlike the swords they’d found at the Troll-hoard, and it is in no way beautiful.

“That’s not of Dwarven make,” murmurs Thorin.

“Nor Elvish,” Gandalf fills in softly. “No, that sword is from a bygone Age.”

“What _is_ that, Gandalf?” Bilbo asks, turning to the Wizard. “The - the ghost?”

And _why_ had Gandalf never mentioned any of these important little details to them earlier?

It’s not over yet. Before Radagast can escape, anther shadow rises; this one is darker, much larger. Somehow it feels more powerful, and the very air feels colder when they look at it. The Brown Wizard stares, terrified. From the shadow, twisted whispers echo, and Bilbo might be wrong but it almost sounds like it is whispering the Brown Wizard's name as if it knows who Radagast is, what he’s doing there. A warning. or a threat?

_“I saw him, Gandalf. From out of the darkness, a Necromancer has come.”_

Bifur shakes his fist, as if trying to catch the attention of the Brown Wizard on the magic wall. Alas, it doesn’t work.“ **Ithmir b’tîr!** ”

Thorin’s hackles are rising by the minute. “Darkness is taking over the Elven Forest that we’re meant to walk through - there is an enemy rising at Dol Guldur? A _Necromancer_?!”

“… N-necromancer,” Bilbo echoes weakly, feeling blood drain from his face. Trolls, Orcs, Wargs… all that they have managed to outwit or outrun, in the end, but a Necromancer? That’s just – that’s just totally out of their league. _Oh, but who’s planning on facing down a Dragon soon enough?_ he thinks and struggles not to laugh manically. _Yavanna’s green garden. This was **not** in my contract._

“I _knew_ this road trip was a bad idea,” Bombur sighs, half an uneaten cheese block resting in his lap. He seems to have lost his appetite, just like the rest of them, at the thought of such a dark and powerful enemy.

“You knew about all this, Gandalf?” Bofur exclaims, dismayed. “And you never bothered to tell us once we were out of the Goblin tunnels? Even mention, you know, that ‘Oh you should be careful after we leave Beorn’s house because that Elf-forest is home to a frickin’  _Necromancer_ and a big bunch of his pet spiders’. A warning would be nice.”

“Yes, well, with your quick escape from Rivendell I had little chance to warn you. And we were quite busy to find shelter after all that in the Goblin tunnels and flight with the Eagles. I would surely have told you in time.” That’s not very reassuring, though.

Dwalin flexes his fists, no doubt longing for his two axes Grasper and Keeper; had he had them he’d feel (relatively) a little safer. “A Necromancer. ... We’re fucked. We’re all so fucked.”

Thorin releases a curse in Khuzdul. “Tharkûn, why didn’t you tell us?!”

Radagast runs. Out across the bridge, into the woods, away from the fortress. Right into a nearby clearing where his Rhosgobel rabbits are waiting. One of them stands up and stomps its foot repeatedly as if to alert the others. At the Wizard’s shout they all start moving, dragging the Wizard’s sled with them and Radagast struggles for a moment to keep up. In the last second he jumps onto the sled and escapes.

* * *

A second later they’re back in the present (or, technically, a more recent past). Radagast startles and looks apologetically at Gandalf, who is still smoking like it’s a normally calm Wednesday afternoon and as if his fellow Wizard hasn’t just revealed that there's a Necromancer out there. The Grey Wizard offers his pipe to the Brown one.

_“Try a little Old Toby. It’ll help settle your nerves.”_

The Brown Wizard breathes in. And in.

_“And out.”_

And in. With a smile, Radagast has smoke coming out of his nose and ears. But he does seem a little calmer. Gandalf leans in, voice lowered.

_“Now - a Necromancer. Are you sure?”_

“Nah, it was surely just a very vivid dream,” Bofur says sarcastically. “Did I tell you I had a dream like that once? Except for a Necromancer there was this giant sponge-cake ...”

Intrigued, Bombur blinks at his brother. “Did the sponge-cake try to strike you down?”

“No, no, no - I ate it. It was a good dream.”

(Inexplicably Bilbo feels a sudden, strong urge to smack his palm in his own face.)

With hands more steady than two minutes earlier, Radagast pulls something from within his brown cloaks. It’s wrapped in cloth and the shape of the package is rather the give-away of what is must be, though it is never shown. Gandalf takes it.

“Five silver coins that it’s that weird sword from the ruins,” Kíli exclaims, although no one takes him up on his bet right away (not even Nori).

“'Course it is,” Fíli says, rolling his eyes. “I doubt it’s a bunch of diamonds.”

_“That is not from the world of the living.”_

Suddenly there’s the howl of animals at a distance - or a not so distant distance. 

“And we were having such a good time ...” Bofur drawls.

Dwalin glowers. “Shut up.”

“I think we’ve going to have to watch ourselves run now,” sighs Bombur. “My feet ache just thinkin’ bout it.”

Bilbo can share that sentiment. A lot.

* * *

 _“Was that a wolf?"_  Bilbo asks nervously. _“Are there wolves out there?”_

 _“Wolves?"_  Bofur says. “ _No, that is not a wolf.”_

Glóin is standing on a mossy root just above them on the lookout, axe at the ready; a Warg suddenly jumps down into the clearing, missing him by a hair’s width. It lands with its jaws wide open, no doubt intending with its attack to swallow them whole, but Thorin leaps at it with Orcrist, cutting its throat. Within a second Kíli has grabbed his bow and launched an arrow in the opposite direction, where another Warg comes charging. It falls down with a heavy thud, quickly finished off by Dwalin.

_“Warg scouts - which means an Orc pack is not far behind.”_

_“Orc pack?!”_  Bilbo gasps.

 _“Who did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?”_ Gandalf demands  
to know from Thorin. _“Who did you tell?”_

_“No one! No one, I swear!”_

Dwalin interrupts any possible interrogation. _  
“We need to get out of here.”_

And Ori interrupts any possible escape on horseback.  
_“We can’t - we have no ponies! They bolted!”_

“Poor things. I wonder what became of them,” Bilbo ponders aloud. He’d grown quite attached to the ponies. They certainly didn’t deserve facing the end at the business end of a sword, or the sharp teeth of a wolf.

“They may have found their way back home,” Thorin suggests gently. The beasts were not completely unwise, after all, and might have remembered the path back to the Shire or the Blue Mountains.

“Or gotten eaten.”

 _“Dwalin!”_  Ori mutters, poking at the big Dwarf with one of his knitting needles.

“What? Just sayin’.”

_“I’ll draw them off!”_

_“These are Gundabad Wargs. They will outrun you!”_

_“These are Rhosgobel rabbits! I’d like to see them try.”_

“Oh, Mahal’s big left toe.” In Bilbo’s fair opinion, Dwalin’s curses are frankly turning more ridiculous by the minute. “Him and his Rhosgobel frickin’ _rabbits._  Yup, that Wizard’s off his rocker.”

“I think he’s rather brave. It takes guts to challenge Orcs and Wargs when all you’ve got is a bunch of rabbits,” Ori says.

“He’s a Wizard. Wizards are -” Bofur clears his throat, glancing nervously at Gandalf, who just stares back with an eyebrow silently raised. He quickly changes whatever he first meant to say, clinging tightly to his hat (probably fearing that it will be taken from him as punishment if he upsets the Wizard). “- Wizards are Wizards.”

* * *

_“Come and get me!”_

Radagast is laughing. Laughing while being chased by a pack of Wargs.

Whatever works for him, Bilbo supposes.

So there they are. Running, and on empty stomachs no less. Running from Wargs. Oh, that’s a thing to mention in a letter to his cousin, once all this is over, Bilbo thinks. _‘Oh hello, cousin Fortinbras! You’ll never guess what I've been up to these last few months. Travelling with a bunch of Dwarves and a Wizard; we’re going to take back this Mountain from a Dragon, you see. We're having a nice time; good food, enjoying the scenery, riding ponies, and being chased by a pack of bloodthirsty Wargs ...’_

Just thinking about that miserable time of running and running makes Bilbo’s feet ache. Now seeing it all again, though from a bird-eye’s point of view, his whole legs are itching and hurting as if he’s just finished running that mile. Or two. Or however many miles it might have been. All right, maybe it wasn't that far, but when you've got a whole lot of blood-thirsty, hungry, ferocious, dangerous - did he mention blood-thirsty? - Wargs and a pack of Orcs at your tail, it doesn't matter how far you run. You run fast, as fast as Hobbitly possible, and you don’t stop until you’re certain that you’re as far away as possible from those Wargs and Orcs. At the end of the day your feet’ll be sore and legs hurting. Therefore, Bilbo would rather not think of that moment ever again, so this reminder isn't that welcome. Bilbo’s heart had been in his throat, hearing the howls at the distance. Out in the field they’d been terribly vulnerable, too. No, he doesn’t want to be reminded.

_“Stay together!”_

“It’s not like we needed any extra encouragement,” Bombur says.

“Is it just me, or does this chase scene appear much shorter than it was in reality?” Fíli says.

“No, it’s not just you, brother. It felt like it took half an Age. A quarter of an Age, at least.”

Just then it looks like they’re on a collision course with Radagast and the Warg pack; they’re a few hundred yards away, but in this open landscape that’s close enough to be spotted. The dive behind a large rock, or are pulled in the case of Ori, a hand reaching out to grab his collar before he’s spotted.

_“Ori, no! Get back.”_

The rest in the rather useless hiding place is far too brief to get a proper breather. They’re off a few seconds later, when Radagast no longer is in sight, the howling further away. As the Wizard gestures for the Company to continue running, Thorin faces him, voice sharp.

_“Where are you leading us?”_

No answer is given - only more running.

“Oh, just to some very nice inn with some nice warm beds and a hot meal.”

Fíli rolls his eyes, arms crossing. “Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Kíli.”

Thorin is muttering. Listening a little closer, Bilbo comes to realize that the Dwarf is running a commentary. Probably involuntarily. “...and there he crosses our trail! No wonder the beasts caught our scent, the Wizard’s bloody useless at distracting, once they’d smelled us it was just a matter of time -” The Dwarf is clenching the armrests of his chair, looking quite tense, and Bilbo considers fetching him another cup of tea to distract him. Besides, giving what's coming next, after the chase - the whole debacle with the Elves - then Thorin is certainly going to need some more tea.

Indeed, their scent has been felt by one Warg and the Orc riding it. While the Company is pressed beneath a large rock for cover, the beast clambers up on it, and it’s a matter of seconds before the rest of the pack is alerted to their presence. The Orc draws its weapon, a ragged sword with razor sharp edges, but before it actually sees them Kíli has rushes out and drawn his bow, releasing an arrow - it hits the Warg in the neck. The creature stumbles with a grunt and a cut-off shriek, and another arrow is released, hitting the rider. The foul things fall over, crashing onto the grass in front of the Company. A cry of dying pain echoes of the plains: and the Wargs stop in their tracks, hearing it. The wounded Orc is finished off by Bifur, Thorin and Dwalin, but it’s too late.

_“The Dwarf-scum are over there! After them!”_

“Where’s that outcrop?!” cries Kíli, panicked even if they’re right now, in this magic place, out of danger and need not worry about Wargs.

Dori shakes his head. “Twas a hole, not an outcrop.”

“But there were those rocks sticking out of the ground, where the hole was hidden.”

Dwalin looks at the two, unimpressed. “We’re watching ourselves being chased by a pack of Warg-riding Orcs, and you're arguing semantics?”

 _“Yes._ It’s important. Look, that hiding place we found which led to the Valley - that’s a hole, not a bloody outcrop. Ori, tell him,” Dori says sternly, gesturing with his arms.

Ori clears his throat. “Well. An outcrop is a rock formation, of a sort, above ground level. And that’s what we found.” - “Ha! I was _right_ ,” Kíli exclaims triumphantly, crossing his arms with a smug smile. - Ori goes on, like he hasn’t heard: “We found an outcrop with a hole in the middle of it. So, technically, you’re _both_ right.”

“Thanks for shutting them up,” Dwalin says to the young scribe, looking relieved.

“Oh. Umm, you’re welcome.”

“Look! We’re surrounded! And there’s the outcrop! I mean, hole in the ground! Whichever,” says Fíli, pointing (needlessly) at the moving images.

And there they are, the Company left exposed and scattered on a hilltop. The Wargs are closing in around them from all directions, and there’s no sign of either Wizard. Kíli has drawn his bow, and his brother his sword; there’s Glóin gripping his axe alongside Dwalin. With a white-knuckled grip Ori takes aim with his slingshot at the nearest Orc, but it does little to stop them. 

 _“We’re surrounded!”_  Fíli shouts.

 _“Where’s Gandalf?!”_ Dori cries.

 _“He’s abandoned us!”_ Dwalin growls.

“Hurry, hurry ...!” That’s Thorin again. Bilbo refrains from reminding the Dwarf that no matter what they say or do here while watching, they can’t affect what’s occurring on the magic wall. It is after all their past, and the past is already done. He can understand why Thorin’s muttering what he does, though, because there’s a gnawing feeling of unease and tension in his own gut, a hint of anxiety and adrenaline - as if he’s back there, surrounded by Wargs who happy want to eat him and the rest of the Company. Even knowing that they made it out all right, it’s tense to watch it all happening again.

Thorin has drawn Orcrist, swinging it in a graceful arch above his head.

_“Hold your ground!”_

Finally: Gandalf’s pointy hat, rapidly followed by the Wizard himself, pops up behind a jumble of jagged rocks.

_"This way, you fools!”_

“About damn time ... Ought to skin the Wizard’s sorry hide for delaying so long,” Dwalin mutters darkly, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

 _“Quickly, all of you! Come on, move!”_  Thorin shouts.

One by one they go, hurrying to the spot and - trusting whatever direction the Wizard is taking them in (because it certainly beats being eaten) - diving into the cave-opening hidden there. _One, two, three, four ..._ It seems that Gandalf is counting heads. Lingering topside is Thorin, drawing Orcrist and wielding it with a kind of certainty like he’s held the blade before, not like he picked it up less than an hour ago for the first time, freeing it from the dirt. The sword fits well in his hand, Bilbo supposes. Not that he knows much about sword-fighting (nor, he hopes, will he ever have to) but it must take quite a lot of training, and each sword must be a little different, unique. Balance and that sort of thing. He guesses that’s what he’ll have no choice but to learn, since Thorin is insisting on giving lessons as soon as they get out of here.

Down below, Gandalf is counting them as they appear. First Bofur, then Bilbo and Balin; there’s Glóin and Ori, and Bombur sliding down the crevasse for cover.

_“... Nine, ten ...”_

“Oh, good to know we’re in such safe hands.”

“I told you about the sarcasm, brother.”

“Yes, well, I don’t really trust Wizards anymore, that’s all.”

Guarding the mouth of the cave, Thorin waits impatiently for the last stragglers to take cover. At least down there they’d have a chance of fighting back. Coming in single file they could probably last a lot longer against the Orcs than up there, out in the open.

_“Kíli! Run!”_

Felling a final Orc with an arrow, Kíli sprints through the tall grass, and he dives head-first into the unknown where the rest of the Company is waiting, right after his brother. And last comes Thorin, and there’s a second, two, three of tense silence. The thumps and growls of the enemy above can be heard, coming closer. And then - a horn.

There’s a flash of white horses, thundering hooves, and warriors in capes bearing down on the Orcs. Bows sing, arrows piercing the air, and there are swords being swung, odd cries of Wargs dying. Being stuck where they are underground they can’t see a thing of what’s going on, which had been nerve-wracking and frustrating at the time. Now they are allowed to see only a little more: horses thundering across the plains, arrows flying from bows, all in a violent charge. It’s swift and over very quickly.

Then a large body comes tumbling down the outcrop, an Orc with an arrow through its back. Thorin is there at once inspecting it, tugging the arrow out roughly. Whatever relief and astonishment had been on his face is exchanged with a frown when he realizes who their rescuers are.

_“Elves!”_

He might as well have spat the word. Casting the arrow away Thorin stands, shooting Gandalf an angry look but the Wizard remains (as per usual, at this point, whenever confronted) silent. In the meanwhile Dwalin has started trying to find a way out; up is a no go, so there’s only the one path to follow, cut into the rock.

_“I cannot see where the pathway leads. Do we follow it or no?”_

_“Follow it, of course!”_ Bofur says.

The whole Company scrambles to go get out of there; there’s not really much else of a choice. They start walking in single file and Thorin reluctantly follows, leaving Bilbo and Gandalf to take up the rear.

_“I think that would be wise.”_

* * *

Thorin clears his throat. “So, tell me, Wizard, how much of that was planned and how much of it was improvised?”

Gandalf huffs around his pipe. “Now, I - euhm -”

“Come now. I am sick and tired of subterfuges and lies.”

“ - I did certainly not plan for us to be ambushed by Orcs, or for the Troll incident to happen -”

“‘Incident’?” exclaims Glóin, looking most upset. “You dare call it merely an ‘incident’?! My beard’s all a-mess because of that ‘incident’, and I nearly lost my locket with my wife’s and little lad’s picture!”

“Master Dwarves - and Bilbo - I assure you that I planned none of that.” A pause. “... However, I  _might_ have looked ahead in the general direction of Rivendell. Yes. Ahem.”

“I take it Lord Elrond told you to get lost, then?”

“Master Oakenshield, I did not get the chance to meet with Lord Elrond before we all arrived nor was I told to ‘get lost’.”

“What a pity,” sighs Dwalin.

Óin frowns, tilting his ear-trumpet. “What’s nifty?”

Shifting in his large chair Gandalf lowers his pipe. “You should be glad, Master Dwarves, for Lord Elrond’s hospitality. Without him we would not have been able to read the map, or find shelter from the Wargs.”

“I take it that’s the closest to an apology we’re going to get.”

Right. Stubborn Dwarves and one stubborn Wizard, and Bilbo had thought his headache at some point would go away. Apparently not. The Hobbit tries to imitate that stern expression his father used to wear whenever he found someone had helped themselves to his raspberry pies without permission. “I thought we had agreed on a truce.”

“Ah. Yes, sorry, Bilbo,” Thorin mutters sheepishly, much to the astonishment (or maybe not) of the Company. They had after all struck a deal to not make more of a fuss with the Wizard and his deceptions and decoys until after they’d gotten out of this strange, magic room with its magic wall. Hopefully it won’t be much longer - Thorin has some old scores to settle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wordlist (Khuzdul)**  
>  **Khurm** Brother (pl. _kharâm_ ) ([Source.](http://midgardsmal.com/dwarvish-8/))  
>  **Tharkûn** The Dwarven name for Gandalf, which means "staff-man"  
>  **Yêbith** Spider ([Source.](http://midgardsmal.com/dwarvish-8/))  
>  **Lu akradihu!** I don't believe it! ([Source.](http://midgardsmal.com/further-dwarvish/))  
>  **Ithmir b’tîr!** Get away from there! ([Source.](http://midgardsmal.com/dwarvish-5/))
> 
>  **Additional notes**  
> [Rudigar Bolger](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Rudigar_Bolger%20) A Hobbit of the Shire, born in the Third Age 2855 | 1255 by Shire Reckoning, and died in T.A. 2948 | S.R. 1348. He married [Belba Baggins](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Belba_Baggins%20) (T.A. 2856-2956) and they had one child, Herugar (T.A. 2895). Belba is the daughter of Mungo Baggins and Laura Baggins (née Grubb), who are Bilbo’s _paternal_ grandparents, making Belba his aunt on his _father’s_ side - (Thank you  Snapeshipsfan17 and phoenixdaisy who kindly corrected me on this point!). - Which makes Rudigar Bolger and Bilbo family through marriage. Anyway, Rudigar and Belba had their son Herugar in 2895 which according to my headcanon means they probably married around ‘93 or ‘94. (For reference, Bilbo is born on the 22th of September T.A. 2890 | S.R. 1290. -- The Quest takes place in T.A. 2941 | S.R. 1341, when Bilbo is 50 years old.)  
> I completely made up that thing about Rudigar’s scarce foot hair, and no Hobbit was meant to be insulted.  
> Info on [**Ungoliant** can be found here.](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Ungoliant)  
>  _Please let me know if I've missed anything or messed up anywhere, in regards to facts, continuum or grammar or anything else that comes to mind. And of course I'd be delighted to know if you enjoyed reading! Thank you!_  
>  _A bit unrelated to this fic, but I've made an instrumental cover of '(Far Over) the Misty Mountains' which can be found[here at my soundcloud](http://soundcloud.com/relativitetsteori/misty-mountains-cover-bells)._  
>  Until our next meeting!


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